


Whenever You Are

by walkandtalk



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Spock POV, T'hy'la, Time Travel, movie compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:53:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkandtalk/pseuds/walkandtalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs is a love that is timeless, absolute, and a little out of order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

-1-

Spock stood outside the gardens of the family house in ShiKahr well after his parents had retired. Despite several hours of meditation, sleep had been elusive tonight, the eve of his entrance exam. It would determine the next five years of his studies and was the strongest predictor of an acceptance into the Vulcan Science Academy, his ultimate professional goal. He traveled the paths of the courtyard, a flashlight in his hand in deference to the moonless Vulcan sky, taking comfort in his familiar surroundings until the moment an aberration occurred.

Out of the thin Vulcan air, a man appeared in the garden.

It was the clearest way Spock could describe it.  He was alone, he was certain of it, and suddenly he was not.  Perhaps a soldier would seek a weapon, a wiser being would flee, but Spock was a scientist and his instinct was to investigate.

He leaned over the prone figure, holding his light above to observe.  Just as Spock was starting to suspect that a corpse had been transported to the courtyard, it groaned.

“Oh, thank god. Spock.”  The being—a Human, Spock was certain, judging by the smooth curve of his ears and the length of his forearms compared to the relative length of his torso—opened his mouth once in shock, then grimaced. “I’m sorry, but—”

“You are in need of medical attention,” Spock observed.  The man’s forearm was cut deeply, his red blood mingling with the red sand, making it shimmer.  The odd angle in which he held his arm protectively to his side indicated a complicated fracture.

“No—wait—” the stranger protested before Spock could turn around.  “There isn’t time.  I just need a dermal regenerator.”

Spock considered for a moment why there _wasn’t time_ , but calculated that the most efficient and ethical solution was to retrieve the necessary item, which was just inside the corridor, so he complied. In moments he proffered a med kit, which the Human opened and immediately administered bone knitting compound spray to his neck and retrieved the dermal regenerator and started to repair the skin of his arm.

“It will not heal properly,” Spock commented.  “The ulna will have to be re-broken.”

“You’re just as know-it-all at any age, aren’t you,” the stranger ground out between clenched teeth, concentrating on his work.

Spock considered the unusual turn of phrase for a moment, but before debating the syntax of “know-it-all,” he had a more pressing question.

“How do you know me?” Spock had an eidetic memory. He had met exactly eight Humans in his life; none of them resembled the being laying on the ground of the courtyard.

The stranger looked up from knitting together the wound on his arm.  “Educated guess.”

“You have entered my family house uninvited,” he pointed out.  “How have you come to be here?”

He finished closing the wound and flexed his fingers, wincing.  “Really? This is your home? On Vulcan?”

“Yes, I have already stated this.  Answer my question.”

“How did I get here?” the man repeated.  “It’s complicated, not sure if I can explain in time.”

“In time for what?”

The man got a far away look, and the snapped his attention back to Spock, giving him a lopsided grin. “This.”

And in the closest fraction of a millisecond Spock could reasonably calculate, the man was gone.

 

-2-

Spock was nineteen the next time he saw the stranger.  He was waiting in an antechamber inside the Vulcan Science Academy to take his oral examination when he felt, rather than saw, someone behind him. Spock spun around, immediately recognizing the intruder from his childhood, the tall blonde Human, this time uninjured and appeared just as surprised by his surroundings as Spock was by his sudden appearance.  He rejected the instant denial that came to mind, the subtle and dangerous inner voice that suggested that Spock had imagined the bizarre encounter all those years ago and he was imagining it now.  Spock was Vulcan.  Vulcans did not create such fantasies.

“It’s just me,” the man said, hands raised in surrender.  “Always a pleasure to see you.”

Spock blinked unnecessarily, as if his eyelids could possibly erase the vision of the Human from the garden, now dressed black pants and a garishly bright yellow shirt.

“Precisely how many times have we encountered each other?” Spock asked evenly, determined to obtain some factual information about this occurrence.

In the daylight, the unusual brilliant pigment of the Human’s irises were just as startling, and they fixed him with an enigmatic look that made Spock feel like this Human held a library of secrets behind his eyes.

“I stopped counting,” he replied.  “So, where are we today?”

“You do not know where you are?”

The Human looked around the small unadorned room for a clue, and shook his head. “No.  Care to tell me?”

“The Vulcan Science Academy, which is protected by a standard antitransport deflector.”

The man grinned at Spock’s unasked question, answers sparkling behind his eyes.  “You think I transported here?”

No, he did not. Each time the Human’s entrance and exit had lacked the telltale sound and palpable energy signature of a transporter beam, but he was without another hypothesis.  The stranger started to walk to a wall, brushing his fingers against the walls delicately, as if to ascertain their permanence.  “So this is Vulcan,” he mused, peering curiously out the sole narrow window, down onto a busy ShiKahr street.  “It’s not as hot as I thought it was.”

“It is the wet season,” Spock replied automatically, despite his intense desire to interrogate and uncover the mystery of the other’s appearance, but he was unsettled and strangely certain that if he pressed further, the man would disappear. “Do you visit Vulcan often?”

“No, it’s my first time,” he said, looking back over his shoulder from the window, catching Spock’s disbelieving stare.  “Oh, I see. Not my first time.”

Spock felt a bubble of frustration—such a shameful Human emotion— finally burst. “Why are you here?”

The Human turned around, tilted his head back in challenge.  “You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.  You’ll figure it out,” he paused, looking around the room. “But I doubt you’ll find the answers on Vulcan.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should… cultivate some other options.”

He was about to demand where he would find such answers, but a door swung open and the junior minister of the science council stepped into the antechamber.

“The Ministers are ready for your exam.”

Before following the junior minister into the hall, he glanced back, disappointed yet unsurprised to find the room empty once more.

 

 -3-

Spock was seated at his office desk, entering line after line of code, perfecting the design of his pet project.

“Wow,” a voice whispered over his shoulder.  Spock looked up, and this time swiftly recovered from his surprise and was intent on studying the man, now dressed in civilian clothes, a soft looking t-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots.  He was studying the room with rapt interest.  “So today’s the day.”

Spock stood, briefly considering turning on a recording device, then rejected it. Surely he should call security first, as he was an intruder.  Years of Starfleet training had instilled some value for procedural safety adherence above his curiosity.

“Why don’t you record me?” the stranger suggested.  At Spock’s look, the man shot him a blinding grin.  “Trust me, you’ll want to.  It’s okay, I’ve seen the video.”

“Video?”

“Your hologram recorder is malfunctioning today, so you’ll have to settle for 2D imaging,” he said, and without asking sat on the edge of Spock’s desk.  “What are you working on?”

Although all thoughts of alerting security had vanished, he was not entirely trustful of this Human. Spock took out his hologram recorder, used for simulations and labs in his classes only yesterday. A quick look at one of the emitters corroborated the stranger’s assertion.  Part of the recording lens was cracked, rendering it useless. The stranger just smirked in response.

Spock gestured to his vacated chair for him to sit, and set up his computer to record the proceedings. It would not be as useful as a holovid, which could be later analyzed for far more forensic information, but it would have to do.

“What is your full name?”

“Just Jim, for now.” At Spock’s pointed look, he shook his head.  “I want to tell you that full truth, but I can’t.  Trust me, it’s for the best.”  Spock considered and relented.

“What is your purpose on Earth today?”

“To tell you about who I am, I guess.  I don’t really know, but I do know that almost a decade in the future, I will watch this recording. I remember this office, and those,” he gestured to the four small oil paintings behind him, mementos from his mother.  “They were in the background of the video you made me watch, so I figure that I show up today, today must be the day I tell you everything.”

 _Except his name_. Spock ignored the errant thought and continued. “You are alluding to time travel.”

“Yes, I am. But before you start screaming about temporal incursions and looking for my thirty first century time agent badge, I’m not one of them.  I’m from the twenty third century, same as you.”

“How is this possible?”

“I can’t explain why it happens.  You think that I might be traveling into a sentient space-dwelling phenomena.”

“I do not.”

“Well, you can take it up with yourself later,” the man muttered.  “I think that it’s _me_. I’m the one that’s causing it.”

“Explain.”

He smiled a little, his eyes twinkling.  “Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes when I need something, I wish really hard, and then I find myself here.”

“Where?”

Jim’s lips quirked again in a secret smile.  “Near you.”

“How many times has this temporal anomaly occurred?”

Jim considered this question. “You know, I’ve lost count.”

“So you have said.” Spock wondered if this Jim would remember their brief encounter at the Vulcan Science Academy.

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” His face turned from thoughtful to self-satisfied.  “Glad to see you took my advice and applied to Starfleet.  You should listen to me more often in the future.”

Spock had tried and failed to assure himself that his decision to apply was not nearly as influenced by the startling anomaly of a Human that winked in and out of existence, but rather Jim’s seemingly offhand comment had reminded him of an interest he had long held, thus merely a catalyst and not the reason. He was less sure now than he was then. “You are certain we will see each other in the future.”

“Definitely. Our timelines are about to sync up, in a sense, and I won’t start time traveling until after we meet in our shared timeline.”  Jim leaned forward, his face becoming animated.  “I’ve spent years studying quantum and temporal mechanics.  There are some widely held conjectures that this situation is violating. The Wells-Tuxx’ol Principle? I think I destroyed it. I’ve logged every visit, every detail I could remember, and we’re still not any closer to figuring out the rules to my temporal jumps.  As best as I can tell, the Novikov self-consistency principle still applies, but we can assume there is a multiverse while we are simultaneously maintaining this single fixed timeline.”

“Fascinating.”

“I know. It freaked me out for years that I was making time jumps.  I had no idea you remembered my visits, and I was convinced I was hallucinating them for a while, just like you aren’t certain you haven’t been hallucinating me.” Spock did not deny it, and Jim continued. “You told me that’s why you are recording this, as proof that I did come back.  You won’t show it to me for another seven years.”

“When will we meet?”

“Our first meeting?” Jim’s eyes widened, memories playing across them.  “Less than a year, I think.  Not a very good story.  Suffice it to say, it was not our finest moment.  If you could try to keep an open mind about me, it will be worth your while.”

Spock could make no promises.  “Why am I the constant?”

The man leaned forward slightly, and Spock was momentarily surprised that he had been leaning so far forward in his chair, fascinated by the possibilities of Jim’s supposed time travel, to not notice they were now nose to nose.  “That is one you’ll have to figure out on your own time,” he murmured.  The hot air of his breath made the hair on Spock’s neck stand up. Before he pulled back, Jim placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips.

Spock’s mouth opened in surprise, and Jim gave him another unrepentant grin.

“Sorry. You’ll thank me for it later.”

Before Spock could ask why he would be grateful for such an assault, Jim blinked out of existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle Readers, even after walking out of The Time Traveller's Wife because I was sobbing so hard, it stuck with my subconscious, surely a sign of a good story. I don't remember much of the movie, and now I'm terrified to read the book, so rest assured this is not meant to be a cross over, and there will be a happy ending, because I don't need any ugly crying with my Spirk. ;-)


	2. Part Two

-4-

Admiral Barnett glanced up over the PADD, giving Spock a measuring look.  “I see.  Very well, Commander, we will address this appropriately.”

“Under section one seven point three of the ethics code, a session of the Academic Council of the Academy must be called within twenty four hours.”

“Yes, Commander, I’ve read the code,” Barnett said in a tone that simultaneously indicated sarcasm and impatience.

“Cadet Kirk will have the opportunity to answer for this event and confront this accuser if he wishes.”

“Commander Spock, do you have a question or are you trying to impress me your eidetic knowledge of my job?”

“I do not wish to be present at Cadet Kirk’s hearing.”

Barnett’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline in disbelief.  “You don’t _wish_ …”

“As my report is both thorough and complete with details of the event in the Kobayashi Maru simulator and I have outlined the exact times in which the program was compromised, my presence is redundant,” Spock explained.  “I request to be excused from the hearing.”

He waited a moment, but knew the answer before Barnett spoke.

“Request denied, Commander. Hearing will be conducted at 0900 hours, I expect you to be in attendance.  Dismissed.”

Spock nodded and navigated out the door and down the hallway to go back to his office, where he spent the next five hours reading exams and filing reports.  When he finished, it was past 2200 hours, well past the time that he sometimes accompanied Nyota to partake in a meal or some social activity, and he should be headed back to his quarters.  He walked down the hallway to the turbo lift, internally debating whether to order a meal from a restaurant on the way to his quarters or use his replicator, when he ran into a solid figure and sent it sprawling onto the floor with the impact.

“Uggghhh,” the figure groaned, propping himself off of the floor with his elbows.  Spock was about to offer his apologies and assistance when the face of all that had troubled him today turned and gave him an annoyed look.

“Cadet Kirk,” Spock said, slightly irritated that now, of all times, he would run into this particular human. “All staff have returned home, and you are not permitted in the building after hours without an appointment.”

“Well, _heellooo_ to you too, Spahk,” Kirk slurred, wobbling while trying to get to his feet, both hands braced on the hallway wall while his legs attempted to straighten.  “And I’m nah a cadet anymore.  I demand your resspehht.”

In an instant, Spock understood.  Not Cadet Kirk. _Jim_.

Which didn’t make the meeting any more enjoyable.  Spock was wary of the time traveller and irritated by his present day counter part.

“How did I get here?” Jim asked in a voice far too loud for the deserted, dim hallway. He was dressed in a rumpled green shirt with buttons and dark trousers, standard Terran casual.

Spock didn’t answer, certain that this was a Human rhetorical question.  “Jim.  It is unexpected to see you again.”

The Human blinked widely at him, his jaw slack.  “You called me Jim.” His eyes narrowed. “You _nevvver_ call me Jim.  Is this some sick Vulcan tradition?  Trying to get one last mind fuck in before you run away?”

Spock drew himself up to his full height.  “I am not sure what you are implying, but as it is you who—”

“Oh god.”

That was the only warning he got before the Human vomited spectacularly on the ground between them.

\----

Spock stood to the side, staring down at the time traveler’s hunched form, not entirely certain that the dry heaving had ceased.

“Sorry,” Jim muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Do you require medical assistance?” Spock asked dutifully.

Jim finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and woeful.  “Just leave me here to die,” he moaned, closing his eyes and seeming to take comfort from the cool surface of the corridor wall.

Spock considered the possible repercussions of leaving an intoxicated time travelling duplicate of Cadet Kirk alone to roam campus unsupervised.  “That would be ill advised,” he replied and opened a panel of the door to activate the janitorial bots to clean up the puddle of synthale and indeterminate partially digested material.  Jim stumbled, but Spock took the back of his arm and ushered him to the turbo lift, where he slumped against the wall while Spock keyed them into the underground monorail station.

“Where are we going?” he mumbled, blinking against the harsh lighting of the lift.

“To my residence,” Spock replied, unsure if he would need to drag the man bodily to the transport or if he would simply agree.

“Residence? But you gave up the apartment—” Jim started, and then immediately stiffened.  “Oh god.”  Spock braced for another round of violent nausea, relieved that none came.  “You’re not you.  You’re not my you, I…”

Spock barely parsed the jumbled words and found the meaning within the slurred words. “I am not of your current time,” he verified.  “But as I cannot remain with you in my office this late, it would be best that you accompany me to my living quarters, if you do not disappear before then.”

“Dammitalltohell.”

Spock was relieved that Jim could follow him unassisted to the empty public transport terminal beneath the campus building.  Instead of taking the empty seat next to Spock, he stood at the far end of the monorail compartment, plastering his face against the window glass and breathing deeply. Two stops later, they were beneath Spock’s apartment complex, and Jim walked out of the compartment and ambled to the correct underground entrance, Spock trailing behind him.

“You have been here before,” Spock observed, when Jim was able to navigate, albeit drunkenly, all the way to his quarters and expectantly stepped aside for Spock to input his security code in front at the front door. 

“You have no idea,” was Jim’s cryptic reply, and followed Spock through the threshold and sat on one of the two stools at the counter that divided the pristine galley kitchen from the sparse living area.  Spock replicated a glass of water and handed it to his guest, who drank it down at once and set it down on the counter loudly.

“Thanks,” he replied, and was studying Spock with a much more shrewd and less inebriated gaze.

“Let me guess, big hearing tomorrow?” Jim asked.

Spock ignored the question and supplied one of his own.  “Why are you here?”

“No, you answer me. Twenty two fifty eight point forty one,” Jim over enunciated, his face twisted in some unknown emotion. Pain?  Fear?  “Is that today’s star date?”

Spock nodded, and Jim’s only reply was a mumbled _godfuckingdammit_  and he pushed the empty water glass in a fit of temper, which skidded across the counter and shattered on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and stood up up to clean the glass.  Luckily, Spock was closer and was able to sweep the glass into the floor sanitizer before Jim could likely cut himself picking up the shards, as his executive functioning was moderately impaired.  The Human stood awkwardly in the middle of the bright kitchen, looking down at the clean floor, not meeting Spock’s gaze.  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, a hand raised to rub his eyes, providing an effective shield to Spock's gaze.

“No harm was done, apologies are unnecessary,” Spock stated, aware that intoxication brought out the extremes of emotions among an already emotional species.

“I am sorry,” Jim repeated. “I feel like I’m a broken record at this point, you don’t even know, you’ll never know, but I am sorry. So very, very sorry.”

“For cheating on the Kobiyashi Maru?”

Jim’s hands stilled but continued to obscure his gaze, and Spock interpreted his deafening silence as assent. 

“The Kobiyashi Maru was designed to reflect, in part, the actions of your father, which played an unfairly upon your psyche and experiences and as such was an invalid assessment of your command readiness,” Spock said, the only comforting statement he could think to offer.  “I plan to say as much at your hearing.”  Which makes him wonder about the repercussions the hearing.  Would there be a Cadet Kirk as a familiar visitor to his personal quarters?  A Cadet Kirk who felt comfortable assaulting his person with unrequested bilabial affection?

From what little he had surmised of the future, it was very strange indeed.

“It’s fine,” Jim said, and dropped his hand away from his face, which was now pinched into a woeful expression, and took several steps back, leaning against the wall opposite Spock. “You’ll always do what you need to do. I like that about you, I really do, but sometimes…” Jim trailed off, with no apparent intention of finishing his thought, becoming lost in a world Spock could not yet see.

Perhaps now was the moment he would get some answers to the mental list of questions he had compiled over the last eleven months since the time traveler's last visit.  “Why do you believe you are here, in this moment in time?”

Jim shook his head, a dark shadow crossing his face.  “Do you believe in no-win scenarios?”

Apparently Jim decided it was not Spock's moment.  “I believe that the best solution is available to individuals that possess the skills and knowledge to take advantage of opportunities when presented to them, however meager.”

“I don’t mean cobbling a _good enough_ out of a shit situation.  I mean winning. Everyone lives, everyone who deserves to be happy is happy, balance is restored to the universe.”

“Those three phrases are inherently illogical,” Spock pointed out.  “One cannot determine the deserving among the undeserving, and it is likely that certain lives spared would bring someone unhappiness to others.  Death is thought to be a part of the cosmic balance, if one believes in such a construct."

“So we’re screwed no matter what?”

“Our noble actions will live beyond our lives.  Noble actions are not inconsequential to the greater force of peace and good.”  It was the point of the Kobayashi Maru simulation, but Spock determined it would be pointless to argue this point with an overly emotional time traveler who still harbored deep regrets for cheating on a Starfleet Academy simulation.

“I’ve tried to change the future,” Jim said.  “Have I told you what happens?”

Spock shook his head in the negative.  Jim started to slide down the wall, now sitting on the floor, legs bent in front of him, head in his hands.

“I die."

Jim waited a moment, but Spock couldn't think of a single reply, so he continued.  "Every time, it’s like the universe knows I’m trying to ruin its master plan, and something completely insane happens, and I die, and then I’m back to where I belong and nothing changed. It’s like I’m caught in this terrible time loop, doing nothing but coming back to tell you _whatever_ and I get shot, or drowned, or hit by a tree, or I get thrown out an airlock, or—” Jim laughed sharply and pointed to the replicator next to Spock.  “If I tell you what I want to tell you, or do what I really want to do, that replicator will magically rip out of the wall and crush me.”

“How many times?”

“What?” Jim squinted up at him.

“How many times have you tried to change the timeline?”

“I lost count. Forty?  Maybe fifty?” Jim rubbed his eyes again, obviously disturbed by the memories.  “I can’t control the when, or where, can’t seem to control any of it.  And as always, you never remember any of it.”

“You have been to this time before, and I never remember your attempts to disrupt the timeline?”

Jim stared at the chronometer, which now read 2348.  “Not this exact time.  It’s late, very late, actually.  I usually show up around Tuesday and interrupt your date with Uhura.”

Spock recalled having dinner with Nyota that evening, at a—

“She hates that Japanese restaurant, but will never tell you, by the way,” Jim replied with dark humor.  “I’ve replayed that particular evening the most now.  I haven’t quite worked out what kind of chemistry you two have, but I figure in another fifty aborted tries, I’ll figure it out.”

“You will continue to try?” Spock asked, admittedly surprised by Jim’s fortitude.  To die, even if in a timeline that ceased to exist, and to remember the death would be more than most could endure.

“Yes, and unlike you, I don’t believe in no-win scenarios,” Jim said, and gestured to himself. “But tonight I am drunk, and I don’t feel like it.  I wonder if that makes a difference to the cosmic powers?”

“Perhaps you are not meant to change the past,” Spock suggested.

“What the hell is the point of this, if not to right a wrong?”

Spock contemplated the limited data he had gathered from his other, very brief, visits. “Perhaps it is not I that need to know something, but you that needs something from me.” Jim scoffed, but Spock pressed on. “Aside from changing your past, what do you wish for, at this moment?”

Jim didn’t hesitate to answer.  “Forgiveness.”

Spock looked down, finding from this position, Jim looked exceptionally tired and small. He didn’t know what Cadet Kirk could have possibly done to require Spock’s specific forgiveness, or what he would do, but it was inconsequential.  “You are forgiven.”

Jim looked up, bloodshot eyes narrowed in disbelief.  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“You do not know what the future holds,” Spock reminded him, thinking of a confident, happier man from a further future, dressed in a command gold uniform.  “Kaiidth.  What is, is.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Jim grumbled.

“Then heed that wisdom,” he advised.  “Perhaps the best solution, the only win, is to accept the upcoming loss.”

“I can’t accept that,” the human said, but sounded less than certain.

“Then accept my forgiveness, and find another solution.  I believe my future self would be amenable to assisting you in your temporal… issues.”

Jim snorted again. “Your future self is about an amenable as a Taurelic ox in winter right now.  You won’t talk to me anymore.”

“Your situation is dangerous, as is the knowledge you hold,” Spock pointed out, thinking of a dozens of terrible ways Jim died under the unfathomable forces of the universe.  “However, some amount of danger is inherent within science.”

Jim smiled, a real smile with a small flash of white teeth, and simultaneously reminded him of self-confident smirk of Cadet Kirk in the simulator chair and the future-Jim after their one-sided kiss. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Before Spock could ask any more questions, Jim disappeared, and Spock felt a sharp twinge of disappointment.  Kaiidth.  Spock looked around the room, glancing at the chronometer, which now read 0001, indicating a new day.

He could not help but wonder what it would bring that was so terrible to one time-traveling Human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle Readers,
> 
> Thank you for your kind thoughts, reactions, and reviews. My goal this week is to write another chapter and use "bilabial affection" in conversation. :-)


	3. Part Three

“…And, yet, you can be in two places at once,” his alternate self reminded him. “I urge you to remain in Starfleet. I have already located a suitable planet on which to establish a Vulcan colony.  Spock, in this case, do yourself a favor. Put aside logic. Do what feels right.”

Spock looked away, glancing at the busy crew in the hangar.  There was little that felt right now, let alone logical.  One would argue that speaking to one’s older self from an alternate timeline while being visited by versions of a time traveling Human was beyond the scope of logical.

“Since my customary farewell would appear oddly self-serving, I shall simply say…” and the elder raised his hand in ta’al.  “Good luck.”

Spock watched his elder self walk away, and he felt a renewed sense of curiosity.  When he was but a boy, his father told him that he was fully capable of choosing his own destiny.  Truly, how much of it could be prewritten?

\---

When Spock opened his eyes, he was surprised to note that only 45.45 standard hours had passed since he had begun meditating.  He had surpassed the attempt by twelve hours in his previous session.  After replicating the herbal hydration necessary after such strenuous mediation, he made a note of his experience in his ever-growing log. He walked the length of the tiny trailer twice, stretching the tendons back into suppleness and drew a hand over the sparse hair that formed across his jaw.

A computing station perched on the edge of the kitchenette counter and blinked up at him, indicating that he had received several messages over the last two and a half days.

_“Spock, I saw Uhura today.  She said you weren’t seeing visitors, but I made her give me your link, hope you don’t mind, but you aren’t answering any of the Starfleet channels. If you get this, comm me back. It’s important.”_

_“Commander Spock, this message is to acknowledge your written request to extend your hardship leave.  You are to report to Starfleet Medical for a physical and psionic examination at 1000 hours, which will complete your extension application, which will then be reviewed within the next twelve days by the personnel board…”_

_“Spock, it’s me again.  I need to talk to you, right away, and… never mind.  Comm me when you get this.  Please.”_

_“I’m here.  We need to talk. Now.”_

The time stamp indicated the message was made seven minutes ago.

Carefully Spock pulled the window blinds aside to see Captain James T. Kirk sitting the steps outside the trailer, watching the Arizona sunrise.  Spock took a quick step back from the window and briefly contemplated feigning absence until the man left of his own accord, but dismissed the errant thought.  He gave himself four minutes to complete necessary hygienic tasks and shave.  He noted his hair was three centimeters longer than he had ever allowed it to grow, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment. Spock reflected that it was the first time in 64 days that he felt in peak mental and physical condition.

When Spock opened the interior door, Kirk jumped up off the stairs and looked up in surprise.

“Captain,” he said, nodding his head in greeting.

“Spock,” Kirk replied, dusting the back of his pants off.  “You got my messages?”

“Yes.”

Kirk waited a long moment, obviously waiting for something, but Spock was disinclined to say more. “Can we talk?”

Spock opened the screen door in invitation, and Kirk stepped inside.  The Human looked around the dim, cramped quarters with open curiosity. “You’ve been here long?”

“I arrived two months ago. The trailer and property belong to Captain Pike.  I find the climate and isolation comforting.”  Spock looked sidelong at Kirk, standing awkwardly in the middle of the living area, eyes darting around the room.  “Would you care for tea?”

“Uh, yes, thanks.”

Spock gestured for Kirk to sit on the sofa while he heated water in the battery powered kettle, gratified he could find a second teacup in the back cabinet.   Kirk sprawled on the low couch, hands clasped and elbows on knees, studying the meditation lamp and the biomedical tools on the coffee table in front of him.  He looked exhausted, much thinner than when they had parted just after the Battle of Narada.  Spock wondered—not for the first time— if he had begun to have the recurring time jumps.

“Is that a biofeedback array?” Kirk asked, accepting the warm cup of redleaf tea. “Are you sick?” Spock took the only seat at the green Formica table a half-meter away and watched the other’s face go from perplexed concern to alarm.  “Oh god, you’re sick, aren’t you?  Does Bones know?”

“I am not ill,” Spock finally said.  “At least, I am as healthy as any Vulcan can be after the destruction of our planet and the loss of so many physic links.”  Kirk fixed him with an intense look, compelling Spock to explain.  “I have been practicing _Hakihr_ , the practice of the unification of the mind and body. The biomedical equipment is assisting me in my efforts to strengthen my frontal cortex, providing guiding data when there are no proficient adepts that survived the Narada’s attack to assist me.”

Kirk reached out, almost touching the lamp.  “Does it help?”

“Yes, I am experiencing improved mental ability and sensory equilibrium.”

“Good. That’s good,” Kirk nodded, sipping from his cup and starring at the equipment.

“What is it that you came here for, Captain?”

“How long are you staying here?”

Perhaps, Spock thought, there would be some future where James T. Kirk would directly answer question when Spock asked it.  Perhaps that time was far, far into the future.  “Captain Pike indicated that I may stay here indefinitely—”

“The Enterprise is being recommissioned next week,” Kirk interjected, his voice too loud in the tiny space, betraying some hidden anxiety.  “Starfleet forwarded your request to extend your leave, but I was hoping you wouldn’t actually go through with it.  You never gave me an answer to my offer.  The First Officer position is still open.”

“I have not decided, as of yet,” Spock admitted.  “Once I withdrew from the Vulcan colonization project, the mental health services that were once available were reluctantly redistributed to the Vulcan colonists, who were in greater need of them.  So, I began studying Vulcan meditation practices.  In my recovering state, a starship would be… psychically crowded, for lack of a better Standard term.”  That, among other issues, lead him to _Hakihr_ specifically _._

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“As I have already said, you have my forgiveness.  Although as no offense has ever been taken, it is illogical to seek forgiveness.” Spock set his teacup down and steepled his fingers together in contemplation.  “I would have said as much to you two months ago, even if I had known what was to transpire the following day.”

The cup in Kirk’s hands trembled and his mouth opened and closed in shock.  “You—you remember.”  Spock nodded in assent.  “But you never remember. It’s just—it’s like a nightmare, and I keep trying to save Vulcan, warn you, warn anybody, and then—”

“And then you die,” Spock finished, acknowledging the horror of Jim’s repetitive and futile temporal jumps to the same point in time.  “Once, I found you in the Academic building.  Do you remember it?”

“It was recent, for me,” Kirk said, putting the teacup next to the meditation lamp.  “I just thought, maybe, you’d know what to do. I can’t keep going back, it’s…” Kirk swallowed thickly.  “You forgave me and said you might help me.”

Spock nodded, and stood, reaching for the medical tricorder, this one calibrated for human physiology and handed it to Kirk—Jim.  This was _Jim_ , now. “ _Hakihr_.  Surak said _‘The mind controls the body; control the mind and the body will follow_.’ If you can control your mind, perhaps your body will not fall into the whims of the time stream.”

“You found a way,” Jim said, his eyes alight with hope.

“You cannot save Vulcan,” Spock said.

“You don’t know that,” Jim protested.

“I do,” Spock said, remembering a video recording he had kept of Jim, and the ideas Jim had planted in Spock’s memory.  “But these are things I don’t believe I can share… yet.  I ask you to trust me.”

“Yes. I trust you,” Jim said, holding him in his gaze.

It was Spock who looked away first.  “I can try.”

“So you’re coming with me?” Jim asked hopefully.  He bumped a knee against Spock’s, making Spock look at Jim again. “You’re coming with me,” Jim insisted, gesturing around him.  “You don’t want to stay here, do you?  Why else did you try to find a solution to my ‘ _temporal issue_?’”

Why, indeed? When Spock left San Francisco at Pike’s suggestion that he “find himself” in the desert of Arizona, he knew what he was trying to find.  A disordered mind would take the time to grieve and futilely protest against the cruel chaos of the universe.  Spock could only heal from the trauma and contemplate the truths that had been revealed to him by a time traveler.  If one could find the pattern, chaos became order, and Jim told him the pattern of the incursions was a secret that he would have to unravel.

Spock was a scientist presented with a temporal riddle to solve in James Kirk.  What better destiny could there be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle readers, thank you for reading. This is the first time I've written something and had to create multiple graphs and tables to make sure the timelines were consistent, so rest assured this temporal anomaly of a story is going somewhere. Kudos, mental chocolate, and favorite time traveling trek episodes are always appreciated :-)


	4. Part Four

-5-

“The prognosis isn’t good, but we need time,” Doctor McCoy reported, his voice hoarse with weariness. “Time and luck.”

“I do not believe in luck,” Spock replied quietly, mindful of the medical staff working around the med station.

McCoy glared back at him, drawing himself to his full height.  “Then believe in Jim.”

They both glanced at the closed door down the hallway.  Spock dismissed the doctor, who promptly spun around to return to his duties. He glanced at the closed door one more time and then at the security personnel stationed next to it. He should return to his quarters, but a restless unease had settled in his mind, so he presented his security clearance for inspection and passed through the locked door for the first time.

It was a medical observation room, the kind reserved for observing surgeries.  A large window looked out into the larger patient room filled with medical equipment, a single bed, and a stasis pod.

Jim lay on the bed, the contusions and abrasions had disappeared from his face, now smooth but drained of all color, contrasting sickly with the white sheets. Spock wondered if they had used a dermal regenerator or if it was a side effect of the unusual treatment Doctor McCoy had applied.

If Spock was prone to imaginative but unworkable ideas, he might pretend that Jim was simply meditating,

 _“For a Vulcan, I meditate like a toddler, but for a Human I’m probably a prodigy,”_ Jim would declare after such a lengthy meditation session. _“I could probably quit Starfleet and become a the self-help guru of Ha-keer.”_

 _“Hakihr,”_ Spock would correct absently for the forty-seventh time, using the correct glottal phoneme, _"and you are performing significantly worse than a Vulcan toddler.”_

 _“Thanks, master,”_ Jim would reply in a droll voice, and Spock would again not comment on the incorrect appellation as he knew that Jim only used the term to annoy him.   Nyota had once called it 'pulling his pigtails' but Spock feigned ignorance of the idiom and ceased discussing Jim's unusual behavior with Lieutenant Uhura. _“You know it’s working enough for me.  Once I find a triggering thought, I can control it. I haven’t been back there in over a month.”_

 _"Back there"_ being the week leading up to the destruction of Vulcan.  Spock now had data to support that there was something in Jim’s psyche, his very thoughts, that made him susceptible to the temporal incursions.  With Hakihr, to gain control of his body through his cerebral cortex, paired with traditional trauma counseling, Jim had started to heal from the stress and reduced the frequency and duration of his temporal jumps.

Over the months, he and Jim had ongoing discussions, which sometimes deteriorated into outright arguments, about the Human’s responsibility in the destruction of Spock’s planet.

 _“If I can do something, I should,”_ Jim often argued, when they spoke of the progress Jim made. _“The needs of the many out weight the needs of the one, or the few.”_

As if quoting Surak would convince Spock of Jim's fallacious logic.

 _“You cannot know what repercussions would occur should you try to alter time,”_ Spock would insist. _“Your experiences would suggest that the universe has a failsafe for preventing temporal paradox you have tried to create.   Focus your energy elsewhere.”_

Sometimes the discussion ceased and they would resume their after-hours meditation.  Sometimes it spiraled into an standstill where Jim stalked out of Spock’s quarters and Spock wondered how the Human who had just stormed out of his quarters could ever be the man Spock first met.

 _“But I was right about one thing,”_ Jim would surely gloat when he awoke.  _“We can’t trust Starfleet with this.”_

Yes, Spock would never trust the anomaly that was Jim to anyone after witnessing the devastation that was caused by Starfleet's tenuous control one genetically enhanced man out of his own time.  Had Jim known that Starfleet couldn't be trusted?

“Commander?” a voice to his right questioned gently.  Spock turned, suddenly aware how lost in his own thoughts he had been to have not heard a pair of nurses walk in.  “We are just…” the younger nurse trailed off, a look of discomfit passed across her face and waved her tricorder in explanation.

“Continue,” Spock said, taking a step back so that they could make their way through the observation room to the door into the patient room.  They began to scan and check the monitors, speaking back and forth between themselves, but as soon as one lifted Jim’s arm to attach another medical scanner, Spock pressed the button on the wall, turning the observation opaque.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and closed his eyes.  _The mind controls the body. When I control my mind, I will control my body.  Jim has control of his mind. He will awake._

“Commander?”

Yet again, he found himself unaware that the door had open and looked into the reflection of the opaque glass to find the last person he wanted to see.

Jim Kirk.

Spock forced himself to not turn around, unsure what he would do or say if he were to face a living, breathing Jim Kirk.

“Spock, where are we?” Jim asked, his voice that combination of steel and command that did something to soothe Spock’s chaotic mind.  It was a question he could answer.

“Twenty two fifty nine point sixty two,” Spock replied, a hand still pressed against the glass. He could feel the brittle tension and calculated the exact pressure he would need to exert against it to shatter the window.

“Fifty nine?” he asked. “The future?  He transported me to the future?”

Spock’s hands dropped from the glass and forced himself to turn around, wondering who the _he_ was, of this Jim's last moments.  There was something of his appearance that Spock could almost place.  “I did not transport you.  You have made a temporal jump into this time.  Has this happened to you in any previous occasion?”

Jim’s eyes widened, but he replied with a firm negative.

It was Jim’s first incursion, an event that Jim once alluded to, but always insisted that he could not speak of it.

“But I need to get back to my time, the ship—you—”

“It is my understanding that you always return to your precise position in the time stream, and you do not remain in another position for very long,” Spock said, well aware that there were two nurses and three security officers that would not be understanding if a walking talking Jim Kirk was discovered here.  He side stepped to the opposite wall, an arms length away from either door to incapacitate someone who might wander in.

“But why am I here?” Jim asked, looking around the medical observation room with sharp curiosity.

“What was the last thing you were thinking before you came here?” Spock asked, suddenly thrown back into the Hakihr excercises he had done with his Jim.  For his Jim, he often was thinking of Vulcan, of the "what ifs" as Jim called it, that could have prevented the Narada's plan.

“I was thinking how I could…” Jim’s eyes drifted away from Spock, and then snapped back again. “How I could get you to show you were emotionally compromised, so I could regain control of the ship.”

Spock took a fraction of second to match a Jim from his memory to the one before him. “You were about to participate in a trans-warp beaming onto the Enterprise.”

“But it didn’t work, obviously,” Jim replied, frowning.  "But so many things I've thought were impossible have happened, what's one more on my log?"

Spock froze, horrified. “Jim, you cannot tell anyone you moved within your own time stream.”

Jim blinked, his expression becoming more alarmed.  “Why?”

“You must trust me. Under no circumstance should you discuss or share record of these events with anyone, except perhaps myself.”

“Except you.” Jim repeated with a frown.  “You _hate me_.”

“I do not hate you,” Spock objected immediately, and upon Jim’s incredulous look, amended, “although perhaps nothing in your past twenty-four hours has endeared us to each other, you must succeed in your mission, and you will need my assistance.”

“I don’t see how it’s going to work.”

Spock folded his hand behind his back, contemplating a time he’d sooner forget.  “My mother, I…” he had to look away from Jim’s sympathetic look, could not see those eyes mirror the last look Spock would ever—“I loved my mother.  To lose her was devastating.” Jim’s look became thoughtful as he processed Spock’s pronouncement.  “You will succeed.”

Jim nodded, but instead of being relieved by the assurance, he looked weighted down by the knowledge Spock had supplied.  “I’m sorry, for everything.”

And with that last echoing sentiment, the patient door swung opened and the two nurses returned to find Spock staring at a wall, mentally calculating the chances that Jim’s apology was his last words he would hear.

\---

It was 85.8524% likely that Jim would wake up and speak again.  He did not expect the next words addressed to him to be “you saved my life.”

It was actually one of the least likely utterances, if Spock was prone to imagining what was on Jim’s mind. Which he wasn’t.

“You saved my life, Captain,” Spock protested, “and the lives of many oth—”

“Spock,” Jim interrupted firmly, blue eyes now clear and full of good humor.  “Just… thank you.”

Spock allowed himself to accept the misplaced gratitude.  “You are welcome, Jim.”

An hour later, when McCoy couldn’t convince Spock to leave the hospital room, he excused himself from the room, grumbling about being tired of tripping over Vulcan nannies. Jim didn’t bother to smother a grin, and Spock primly ignored the comment from his perch on the chair by Jim’s bed.

“So, I think you met me at my first time jump, then?”  Spock’s face must have betrayed him in some way, as Jim shot him a sympathetic look. “Your first time isn’t something you forget. You looked at me like I was a ghost, which I kinda was, wasn’t I?” Jim said with a grin, and then promptly dropped it when he saw that Spock was in no mood for macabre humor. “And you told me the exact date, so it was only a matter of time.”

“You knew this would happen,” Spock accused, the illogical feeling betrayal still lingering despite Jim’s projected full recovery.

“The thought had crossed my mind while I was climbing the warp core that I wasn’t going to make it out of here alive.  It had a kind of universal irony, you know?  My first jump would be the last time you see my alive.”

If Spock was capable of seeing the cosmic irony in such an event, he refused to comment. “In any case, that did not happen.”

“Were you ever tempted to tell me about the future, to prevent Khan and Marcus?”

Yes, exactly fourteen times during their three-minute conversation.  Spock rarely had the occasion to experience temptation, but it weighed heavily in his mind that he could perhaps encourage Jim to avoid Admiral Marcus at all costs or discover Khan before Starfleet found the Botany Bay.   He his conversation with past-Jim extended any longer, Spock knew he was likely to suggest that Mister Scott develop more physically stable housings for the Enterprise’s warp core.

“To do so would likely result in a paradox,” Spock finally said.  “And if it had not, I could not be assured that the results of such an event would not cause an less favorable outcome.”

“What could be less favorable than all of this?” Jim asked, gesturing to the muted holoscreen on the wall where one of the Starfleet admirality was answering questions about the Federation led inquiry to Starfleet projects and relief efforts following the crash of the Vengeance.

Spock tried not to think again of a 14.1476 percent chance of a very different future.

“I find myself grateful that we will never know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle Readers,
> 
> In my best excitable Scottish Engineer voice (which is pretty terrible): "I've never done two characters from two movies from one timeline into one chapter before! That was pretty good!"
> 
> Thank you very for your readership. Spock's got some feeeeeeels he's going to have to come to terms with in the next chapter.


	5. Part Five

\---

Upon the recommission of the _Enterprise_ , Spock single-mindedly threw himself into resurrecting and preserving a routine that promoted optimal functioning and the highest level of performance among officers and crew. Nothing would change, because nothing should change.  At the start of their five-year exploratory mission, all was as it should be.

How unusual that it should change.

The first time was a month before the refitted  _Enterprise_ was scheduled to leave dry dock.  He and Jim were reviewing systems reports after a long department meeting, and Jim encouraged Spock to return to his quarters.

“Uhura will start to resent me,” Jim said lightly.  “I can’t monopolize all your time.”

“Lieutenant Uhura has little opinion about how I spend my time,” Spock replied, and judging by the suspicious look on Jim’s face, perhaps he should have broached this topic sooner.  “I updated the crew personnel files to reflect our discontinued romantic capacity, and as it is my duty as First Officer to be aware of such changes, I saw no reason to—”

“No, no,” Jim interrupted, dismissively waving his hand.  “I’m not—it’s just I’m surprised.  I thought you two were… serious.  I’m sorry.”

“Our decision was mutually agreeable and should not impact our working relationship.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Jim paused, fiddling with the buttons on the conference table.

“Yes, Captain?” Jim fiddled some more. “Jim?”

“So you’re single, now?”

“Yes, as is reflected in my personnel file.”

“It’s a long mission to go without any company,” Jim remarked idly.

Spock responded with a single raised eyebrow.

“Never mind.”

 

\---

“Spock!” Jim’s voice rang out over the heads over the busy revelers.  Spock stood several centimeters over most of them, able to find Jim in the crowd, making his way toward him, dragging a giggling Carol Marcus, dressed in a shimmering shift of purple that caught the light and threw multicolored glimmers on the sidewalk and the celebrating passersby.

“I didn’t think you were coming out tonight!” Jim exclaimed.

“I am on my way to my quarters,” Spock volunteered, meeting Lieutenant Marcus’s curious gaze, which quickly slid away.

“No,” Jim protested. “Come with us!”

A moue of distaste flickered across Lieutenant Marcus’s face, which only supported Spock’s decision to decline.

“I do not wish to interrupt your outing and be a third wheel, as it were.”

Jim’s face went blank and then if suddenly remembering his companion, he started to object once more. “No, nothing like that. Just meeting up with some friends at the bar up here,” Jim gestured a block ahead to the drinking establishment with the large holoscreens projecting dancing humanoids. “Bones and Scotty are coming, too.” Jim looked distressed by a sudden thought.  “And Uhura.”

The phrase “ears perked up” was an idiom Spock had not quite understood until Carol Marcus’s attention returned to their conversation with silent yet avid interest. “It is not unpleasant for us to socialize,” Spock reminded him.

“Great!” Jim yelled, and looped his free arm around Spock’s bicep, dragging him along.

In the grip and gravity of the man, it did not occur to Spock to protest.

\---

Spock should have protested. The Discotek, an exotic revival of old Earth historical drinking venues, was unpleasant enough with its blaring music and obnoxiously hued lighting, but he was wedged between a jubilant Jim Kirk and a silent Keenser, who was more interested in engaging in a distinctly one-sided conversation with a very chatty Mr. Scott.  Jim was preoccupied between good-naturedly arguing with Doctor McCoy, attempting to rally Spock to his side, and stealing sips of Lieutenant Marcus’s drink.

“Get your own,” she said for the third time, grinning widely and making no move to remove the drink of Jim’s grasp.

“I can’t be seen ordering something call a Cardassian Sunrise,” Jim said primly.  “It sounds anti-Federation.”

“It’s delicious, isn’t it?”

“Insidious, more like.”  The Lieutenant laughed loudly, and Jim attempted to dodge her playful smack by rocking into Spock.  Across the table Nyota raised an eyebrow at Spock, and glanced at the pair to his left with a look that clearly read _Are you going to put up with that?_   Spock replied with non-verbal equanimity, _Yes, always._   Nyota pursed her lips together, hiding an amused grin and stood up.

“I’m going to the restroom,” she announced, which was the cue for every female to leave the group’s table. Carol Marcus scooted behind Jim and Spock, trailing a lingering hand across Jim’s shoulders and she went.

“No, Jim,” Doctor McCoy said dryly as soon as the women were out of hearing.

“What?” the blonde asked, hands out in supplication.  “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” the doctor grumbled.  “Which is the problem. Either cut it off or do something, I refuse to spend five years in deep space watching her bat her big blue eyes in your general direction.”

Jim snorted and turned to Spock.  “What do you think?”

“I agree, watching Lieutenant Marcus pine over you while on duty would be both a nuisance to her work efficacy and ship morale.”

“No, I mean…” Jim gave a huff of laughter.  “Never mind.”

Spock considered the question more thoroughly, and in the light of all that had transpired between them, and in spite of his dislike of Carol Marcus, shouldn’t he be more supportive of Jim’s holistic health?  Best not to look too closely as to why he assigned such a negative emotion to the Lieutenant’s person.  “However, it was you who suggested we are to embark on a mission of such a duration that it would be difficult to abstain from romantic relationships for the entirety of our venture. Pursuing a relationship could be a logical and beneficial course of action.”

“I was talking about you,” Jim reminded him, ignoring the bark of laughter from Doctor McCoy.

“The comment most readily applies to you, as you are Human and need frequent interface with others sentient life forms to maintain optimal emotional health, which can often includes sexual and romantic interaction.”

Jim’s eyes twinkled while McCoy doubled over, wheezing.  “So, you were listening”

“Of course, Captain.”

An hour later, when the group dispersed and Jim and Lieutenant Marcus went their separate ways together, Nyota stood across from him on the sidewalk outside of Discotek, watching the pair’s retreating backs with Spock.

“You’re doing well?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m fine.” She paused, giving the pair one last arching glance.  “You know, I never thought Kirk would go for such low lying fruit.”

She bid him goodnight, leaving Spock to puzzle out yet another Terran idiom and wonder why he ever thought to give Jim relationship advice.

\---

Twenty three minutes later, Spock rinsed off the smell of synthesized tobacco and the cloying perfume favored by the clientele of the nightclub.  He sat in bed, reviewing the reports and flagging the ones for Jim to review tomorrow. This time he had opted to take temporary residence in an old hotel in the small neighborhood near Starfleet Headquarters instead the usual officer quarters on the campus. Devoid of pneumatic doors, replicators, and with real Terran style beds, Spock found the aesthetic reminiscent of his mother’s.  That it also was a block from Starfleet Medical was also a significant attractor during Jim’s recovery, but as Jim was released, Spock was inclined to stay.

It was almost 0200 hours when someone knocked on the door.

“My key wasn’t working,” Jim complained and pushed into the room.  “God, what a nightmare.”

Several questions immediately came to mind.  _Why would you have a key?  What was a nightmare?  Did you not attempt to pursue a relationship with Carol Marcus?_   Jim had his unique way of derailing that thought process as he stepped into Spock’s personal space and pressed his lips against his, swiping a moist tongue roughly against Spock’s lips and pulled back, giving him a cheeky grin.

“I’m just glad you weren’t there.  She was really terrible.”

“She was?” Spock attempted to modulate his voice, not quite turning the phrase into a question.

“Oh yeah. Just wouldn’t stop yammering on and on about plans, our next step, the Ferengi.”

Spock blinked, still not able to move from the door.  “Ferengi?”

“Yes. Apparently she considers herself an expert on the Ferengi.”  Jim turned around and started to root around the small food fresher.

“Who are the Ferengi?” Not the most important question, Spock realized belatedly and gathered enough cerebral functioning to finally close the door.

“Aha!” Jim pulled out a bag of grapes.  “You went shopping! And that’s exactly my point, who are the Ferengi?  We don’t really know, do we?  We hardly know anything about the culture or Ferenginar, and I initiated Federation contact with them.” Jim started opening the cabinets, searching for something, and shut the last cabinet forcefully in irritation. “Why do you insist on staying here?” Jim asked, popping a few grapes into his mouth and chewed. “A replicator would be nice, you know. Nice, basic necessities.”

“This room is twenty four percent quieter than any in the officer’s dormitory,” Spock said, still observing Jim’s strange behavior, cataloguing it carefully as he may have to report this to Doctor McCoy.  Spock was hypothesizing whether the human had suffered a stroke with elements of confabulation or had come into contact with a hallucinogen, when Jim started to unbutton his shirt.  “Captain—”

“Captain?” Jim echoed, a small smile spreading on his face.  “Yes, First Officer?”

“I must ask you to stop disrobing,” Spock said.  “I believe you are feeling unwell.”

The smile bloomed wider. “Oh, are you going to do it for me, Commander?” Jim turned and sat back on the bed expectantly.  “Want to check my temperature?”

Spock was unsure what was so sexually suggestive about ascertaining Jim’s normothermia, but did not miss Jim’s implied meaning.  “Captain, please stop and let me contact Doctor McCoy.”

Jim’s sat up, his expression confused.  “What’s wrong?”

“Captain, I believe you are experiencing extreme disorientation, possibly hallucinating events.”

“I’m not hallucinating. I just came back from a meeting with Admiral Osoba, and now I’m back in my hotel…” Jim stopped, stood up and grabbed Spock’s chin to turn his head.  “Oh shit.”

“Captain?”

“What year is it?”

“Twenty-two sixty.”

“Oh shit,” Jim repeated faintly, sitting down on the bed, fell backward and grabbed the pillow to cover his face.

“You are not…” _my Jim_ , came to mind, but was unsaid as Jim removed the pillow from his face and sat up.

“Spock, I'm sorry for this misunderstanding, but please don’t mention this to me. Ever.  I don’t think I could bear the knowledge that,” Jim gestured to the door, “was our first kiss.”

It was not, but Spock was loath to bring up that particular occasion.  In deference to their mutual unease, Spock continued to his path of inquiry. “What would have been the trigger to this event?”

Jim glanced around the room and out the window, were a few straggling people were making their way home from the festivities.  “It’s Terran New Year?”  Spock nodded in the affirmative.  “Well then, that’s a story for another time.  Why didn't you recognize I wasn't _your_ me?”

"You are wearing the same shirt."

Jim looked down at his grey and blue tunic.  "You love this shirt."

"I do not," Spock said automatically, surprised to see Jim suddenly grin.

Jim’s smile became sly as he reached for the grapes he had discarded on the nightstand. “Do you know which grapes are the ones worth picking?”  Spock shook his head in the negative, watching in rapt attention as Jim plucked one from the bunch and tossed it in the air, catching it in his mouth.

“The one high on the vine, hanging almost out of reach.”

Jim took another grape, tossed it in the air, but it bounced off the bed and rolled to Spock’s feet, as Jim had disappeared once again.

\---


	6. Part Six

-6-

The next time Spock noticed the indefinable change, he had been minutes from death.

He was sitting in loshirak position on the damp clay ground, carefully breathing so as to not aggravate the fractured ribs near his heart. He calculated that he could hold this position for another fifty-two minutes before his injuries rendered him unconscious and he fell over.  Once that occurred, and his captors became aware of his impaired state, they would likely kill him.  From what Spock had observed, injured prisoners judged unfit for combat were summarily executed.

Three members of the away party had been able to transport back to the Enterprise, but Spock and Lieutenant West had been captured and entered servitude in a combat arena.  West lasted exactly thirty-seven seconds in his first and only battle. Spock had been given the red uniform shirt as a memorial of his poor performance.  The captors referred to it a “death friend trophy” or something to that effect when it was tossed in his cell.  The universal translators were not effective with this area’s particular dialect, which Spock hypothesized was the antecedent to the aborted diplomatic mission.

Spock inhaled shallowly and concentrated on inhibiting the activity in his prefrontal cortex.  Hakihr had sharpened his abilities to control even the most minute of autonomic functions. He had successfully slowed the blood flow to the dermis of his ankle, reducing the appearance of injury. He had survived 40.35 hours in the combat camp.  Anything he could do to stay alive another eight would increase his dwindling chances of rescue, which were currently at nine percent likelihood of escape without Starfleet interference.

Spock was alerted to visitors when the large door to his block of cells was opened and his three jailers, hulking rotund insectesoids with mandibles that clicked and chattered, made their way toward his cell.  It wasn’t until the smaller one moved forward that he saw why they came for him.

They had Jim.

“Combatant of Starfleet,” the largest one clicked, “step forward.”

Spock carefully unfolded himself from his sitting position and stood, careful not to draw any attention to his impaired ankle.  His eyes were trained on his captain, who looked like he had received a well-placed blow to the nose, but was otherwise unhurt.

“Captain,” Spock started, and was struck by the smallest’s pain stick.

“Flesh mouth together,” the largest clicked.  “No noise needed in barter, green flesh bones.”

 _Barter?_ Spock wondered, giving the Human a sharp look.

“Do you find this combatant acceptable for your needs?” the leader asked.

Jim gave Spock an appraising look, then gestured in the affirmative by waving his arms in as the jailers did to indicate assent.

“We find good weight in trade, Starfleet Captain, and we accept your measly flesh life.  Nest shell health white,” it proclaimed, opening a door to an empty adjoining cell.  Spock could not determine the semantics of the jailer’s last sentence, and then watched in wordless confusion as Jim walked into the adjoining cell.  “The many mouths wait for you, fresh combatant.”  

“Walk the river, away, green flesh bones,” the jailer prompted, opening Spock’s own door.  Spock stood in horror. _This was the barter?_   Spock could only see a sliver of Jim’s face, he could see from meters away that his pupils were blown wide—fear? pain?

“Captain,” escaped Spock’s hoarse throat.  Jim shook his head, glancing at the largest beetle-like jailer, who was watching them with a keen silence.

“Walk the river,” the smaller one prompted again, indicating its willingness to use the business end of the pain stick.  Spock stalled, wondering what Jim’s plan was, if perhaps he was to aid in a diversion so that they both may escape safely. The _many mouths_ that awaited Jim were often referenced; the jailers spoke of the honor of being destroyed by the infamous creature frequently during his two-day imprisonment.

“Spock, it’ll be okay,” Jim called, and then was roughly silenced by the smaller jailer passing beside him.  The pain was surely brief, but Jim’s coughs still echoed down the underground corridor as Spock was lead down a passage he had never seen.  Spock’s side hurt, and he limped visibly, saving his strength for a possible attack or diversion, alert for any sign from his captain may have left, any hint of a plan.

Trading Jim’s life for Spock’s could not be the plan.

The large jailer swung open the door, and the clay walls and floor gave way to a control room where other insectesoids chittered busily, working controls with nimble mandibles.  Spock was pushed upon a platform, and the worker drones, smaller copies of the jailers, stopped to look as the smallest jailer hoisted his bruised body onto a platform.

“Run with your ship, green flesh bones,” they chattered. “And never return.”

\---

Spock ran.

Although he estimated in his haste he had complicated the injury to his ankle, but as soon as Dr. McCoy had administered the blood replenishment serum and healed the worst of his rib injury, he had bolted from the medical bay and headed straight to the bridge, McCoy trailing behind him, yelling obscenities and falsehoods about his parentage.

“Status,” Spock demanded, before anyone could acknowledge his presence.

“We cannot locate ze Keptin,” Ensign Chekov reported. “Although we were able to narrow down your incoming transporter signal to ze southern most continent, zey have scrambled the Keptin’s tracking device.  Engineering is vorking on strengthening ze deflector arrays and recalibrating the scans to compensate for the planet’s dense atmosphere.”

“The ambassador?”

“Stopped returning our hails twenty hours ago,” Nyota stated. “All reports we intercepted on the planet surface indicate that you and the away team became hostile and you were executed.  Four hours ago we were able to locate the slave trading ring that had captured you and negotiated the trade with a Tuq named Swiq.”

“A trade that should have never occurred.  Subsection 425 of Starfleet away mission protocol specifically states—”

“We know,” McCoy barked.  Nyota narrowed her eyes at McCoy.  “Captain’s orders,” the doctor ground out, just behind Spock’s shoulder.

Spock turned to face the man, unsurprised by the outburst. “And what, if any, orders did he leave?”

“Save you, and get him back to his ship.”  Spock met McCoy’s challenging look, aware that every bridge officer was holding their breath.  He turned on his heal without further comment and ordered Chekov to bring of a map of the continent he had mentioned.

Spock leaned over Chekov’s station, reading the planet’s terrain, desperately looking for something, anything that would lead him to Jim’s location. Spock never saw the exterior of the combat ring, it was all presumably underground, the sharp scent of the moist clay of the cells was clear in Spock’s mind.  “Bring up any topographical or geological information.” He scanned the maps, spending seconds on one before barking an order for another survey, a scan, something that would lead him—

“Here,” Spock pierced the screen displaying a map of a remote mountain range with one long finger, certain that he had eliminated all other possibilities. “Ready two torpedoes, on my mark.”

“Are you insane?” McCoy shouted.  “You can’t shoot a torpedo at a planet!  Jim could be down there, you could kill everyone!”

“Lieutenant Uhura, please contact the slave trader and the chancellor. Inform them that we will destroy the entire combat arena unless they deliver James T. Kirk to our ship unharmed. Transmit to them the coordinates of our first round of torpedoes.”

“Aye, Commander.”

“Ensign Chekov, I want you to target the northern face of that mountain. Move our deflector array to include the torpedo’s path into the planet’s atmosphere, and continue to scan the planet for Captain Kirk.”

“Sir, the planet is protected by a most defense shield, our torpedoes vill never penetrate it.”

Spock ignored Chekov’s incredulous look.  “On my mark.”

“Aye, Commander.”

“Spock,” McCoy said, grabbing his shoulder.  Spock flinched and turned to the Human.  “This is ridiculous.  You can’t open fire on a peaceful planet.  Jim would never allow it.  You know that.”

“Doctor McCoy, what I do know is that this peaceful planet is not engaging in aid efforts to retrieve our captain, who is unlikely to survive for longer than two minutes in a combat arena.  I am eighty-seven percent certain that without a direct aggressive show of force, he will be dead within the hour.”  Spock unclenched the hands he didn’t know he had balled up in his emotion. “So, unless you have a superior plan, I will be launching those torpedoes.”  McCoy glared silently.  “Arm the torpedoes, Ensign.”

“We’re being hailed, sir!  The slave traders, they wish to negotiate.”

“On screen.”

Another beetle-like being peered into the screen.  “This is Swiq of the Tuq.  Cease and barter.”

“There will be no barter.  You have my captain, I demand you return him to me, unharmed, or I will fire upon your installation.”

“No honor,” Swiq clicked, long mandibles working furiously. “He has proven to be a fine combatant, but certain to die soon.  You will not want him.”

Spock felt his side twinge with pain.    “I am able to judge that for myself.”

“As you wish.”  The screen immediately switched to a view of the combat arena, where Jim was swinging a hatchet, away from what looked a bright orange hydra comprised of slugs with razor sharp teeth.  His arm was held at an odd angle and he had multiple bruises, but he was running unencumbered. The screen switched back to the slave trader.  “As you can see, green flesh, he is facing the many mouths.”

Perhaps a Human would have bluffed or lied, but Spock had no such abilities. He only had his conviction. He would obey Jim’s orders, and he would return him to his ship.  “Remove him immediately, or be fired upon.”

“You cannot permeate the planet shell.”  He was certainly referring to the defense shield, the one deflecting and scrambling the Enterprise’s scans.

“I would not rely on the protection of your planet’s government or its defenses. It appears they are very much uninterested in intervening.  Return the combatant or accept your death.”

“You have failed to present a reasonable offer.  Bartering will cease.”

“Ensign,” Spock ordered, not taking his eyes off of the chattering insectesoid, “fire.”

“Torpedoes away, sir,” Ensign Chekov reported, and the bridge watched as the torpedoes trailed into the planets atmosphere.  For a brief moment, the entire planet shimmered, the outline of the atmosphere bent and rippled, and immediately stations began pinging and beeping, and the bridge became a flurry of activity as Spock’s gamble had proved correct. The photon torpedoes, now safely disintegrated within the shield, were the necessary force, providing them the small hole in the planet’s defense that they needed. Swiq cut off the transmission, his shouts of alarm the last thing they heard from him.

“Sir, we’ve got a lock on the Captain,” Nyota reported.

“Beam him up.”

“I’ve got him!” Chekov announced.  “I’ve got him, sir.”

McCoy turned and walked off the bridge.  “Send him to sickbay, I’ll meet him there,” the doctor announced.

“Acknowledged. Lieutenant Uhura, transmit the Captain's last known coordinates to the chancellor.  Mr. Sulu, take us out, warp five.”

“It worked,” Nyota breathed, falling back into her chair in relief. Spock mentally echoed her sentiment.  He stood in the middle of the bridge, eyed the captain’s chair for a brief moment, making up his mind.

“Mr. Sulu, you have the bridge.”

\---

Spock found himself in the sickbay once more.  Unsurprisingly the human was taking up the only med table, attempting to swat Doctor McCoy away.  Spock stood at the door, thankful to be out of Jim’s peripheral for the moment.

“… ribs only bruised, not broken,” McCoy rattled off, handing the medical tricorder to the attending nurse.  “But that arm…”

“Will have to be rebroken,” Jim replied, resigned.

“Did you get a differential diagnosis from the carnivorous slugs?” McCoy asked, readying several hyposprays.  “Where did you get osteo compound? Did they have little med kits for humans down there?”

“I am very resourceful, and can’t tell you _all_ my secrets,” Jim replied cryptically.  “Did you wish to lend your own medical opinion, Spock?”

Spock folded his hands behind his back, feeling foolish for trying to watch him unawares.  “No, Captain. I will defer to Dr. McCoy’s superior knowledge.”

Jim tilted his head back so he could view Spock upside-down. “You sure?”

“I believe I have already given my medical opinion once before,” Spock replied, meeting the amused look with his own knowing one, enjoying the shared knowledge—was this what was called an inside joke?—that Jim had surely jumped into Spock’s past and received dubious first aid from his nine-year-old self.

The moment was broken by McCoy’s righteous attack during Jim’s lapse of awareness.  Jim slapped a hand to his neck.  “Ow. Seriously, ow.”

“Get over it, you big baby,” McCoy crowed, ready with another hypospray, this time judiciously administered to Jim’s exposed lower thigh. “That osteo compound has complete set those bones at an odd angle, so you truly don’t want to feel what’s coming next.”  McCoy looked up at Spock with the analytical gaze.  “Commander, is this something that can wait until after I discharge my patient?”   Perhaps I can finally look at that ankle?”

Spock frowned, and then cleared his throat.  “No, doctor, I will simply…” he trailed off, having lost his reasoning for coming to sickbay.

“I’ll debrief with you in an hour, Spock,” Jim said, twisting around again. “I’m sure we’ve got lots to catch up on.” His eyes were bright with good humor until yet another hypospray got him in other side of his neck. “Bones!”

“Knock it off, you two,” McCoy grouched.

“Was that the last of them?”

“It’s the last you’ll feel.  It’s a moderate sedative.”

Jim’s muscles went slack and he fell onto the bed.  “Bastard.  Couldn’t you’ve have done… that one… first.”

With Jim now sound asleep, Spock started to back out of the room, but McCoy fixed him a long, calculating look.  “Are you always so certain about everything?”

“To what are you referring?”

“Eighty-seven percent certainty that you had to shoot a torpedo at an unarmed and moderately defended planet, or Jim would die, is very certain odds.”

“I may have been optimistic in my calculations.”

“So you weren’t so certain, then?”

“I was certain that I must do all that was in my power to retrieve the captain from such peril. To do anything less would be...”

“Spock,” McCoy drawled, a smile spread across his face. “No logical platitudes to describe why you had to rescue your captain and friend?  My word, it’s finally happened.  You've certainly changed.”

“What is that, doctor?”

McCoy beamed, ear to ear, clearly amused by something.  “It looks like you’ve come down with a case of the Human condition.”

Spock looked up sharply. “You are teasing me.”

McCoy looked falsely somber. “Better be careful, it’s incurable.”

“Perhaps you should not venture past your medical scope of practice, doctor.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Mr. Spock.  Now hop up on that table.”  McCoy grabbed a handful of hyposprays and started to herd him away from the door. “Let’s look at that ankle you’re pretending isn’t broken.”

While looking at Jim's sleeping silhouette across the room, he wondered if he would have made the same choices today as he would have a year ago.  Perhaps something had changed, or perhaps the doctor was correct.  Perhaps Spock had changed.  He wondered what the Jim of the future thought of that.


	7. Part Seven

-7-

Spock waited in the transporter room, back stiff and face blank.  This had clearly come to the point where it could not be ignored any longer, and he needed to address it with the efficiency and objective decisiveness that made him an excellent First Officer.  It wasn’t personal, it was professional.

When the landing party transported onto the landing pad, Spock stepped forward before the med team could assemble.

“Captain, are you injured?”

Jim looked between his commanding officer and the eager medical team, scanning the group for antigens from the surface and poised to begin triage.

“All clear, you can report to sick bay,” the medic reported, and moved on to assist with an ensign with phaser burn.  Jim smiled, hopped off of the transporter pad and gave Spock a questioning look.

“I need to speak with you, Captain, at your earliest convenience.”

He could almost hear Jim’s indecision, weighing the outcomes of yet another visit to sickbay or a discussion with his commanding officer.  Not one to shy from a daunting task, he answered, “As you wish.  My ready room, Mr. Spock.”

They walked silently but companionably into the turbo lift and down the corridor to a formally appointed space designed by Starfleet, the only trinket of Jim’s being the richly carved chess set that Spock had given him last year for his birthday.  Jim, rather than taking a plush leather seat, stood expectantly, mimicking Spock’s parade rest.

“I take it that this goes beyond a standard debriefing, Mr. Spock.”

“It is about your role in today's away mission,” he started cautiously.

Jim visibly bristled. “It was completely by the book, and you were given the orders well ahead of time.”

“Yes, Captain, but in the last six months, you have been present for most of the missions evaluated as potentially hostile or dangerous.  Fifteen away missions in the last six month, in fact.”

“I don’t put my crew in situations I myself would not face,” Jim frowned.

“The crew would not want to face a ship without a captain,” Spock countered firmly.

“We all signed up for danger and the unknown, Spock.  If I can be the person that tips the balance in favor of success, shouldn’t I try?  At least when I go out there, I know I’m coming back.  I can’t cause a paradox, we've tried that, haven't we?”

A frisson of fear passed through Spock’s spine.  “You are not immortal.  I would encourage you to cease testing that theory using away mission to take unnecessary risks.”

Jim visibly fumed, his voice raising several decibels.  “Oh, I get it, when I do it’s _unnecessary_ , but when you do it, it’s for the good of everyone.”

Spock narrowed his eyes.  “Precisely what do you mean by that comment?”

“I take risks, risks that have paid off.  Martyrdom for the cause has always been your area.” Spock noticed they were now so close he could easily distinguish the individual eyelashes around Jim’s eyes. Spock took a half step back, and broke whatever unspoken tension had built up.  Jim sighed and turned.   “Your concerns are noted, Commander.  I will endeavor to moderate my participation in away missions.”

Spock did not reply, feeling that there had been some unspoken communication that he did not knowingly participate in.

“Aye, Captain.”

\--

“Your department has passed another inspection, Mr. Scott.  You are to be commended for your adherence to the safety drill protocols.”

“Thank ye, Commander,” the engineer replied distractedly, fixing a power coupling.

Spock started to walk out the door, but then paused.  “Mr. Scott.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“I also commend you for moving the unapproved apparatus that was housed behind the manifold in engineering. While I cannot reprimand you for imbibing any of the distillate from such a device on your off hours, I trust that you’ve found a more suitable location.”

“Oh, aye. I don’t think ye’ll be finding it in any unapproved areas.”  Spock nodded and walked away.  “So long as you don’t start taking up gardening in the botanic bay,” the man muttered, surely unaware of the Vulcan’s hearing acuity. Spock gave a mental sigh and continued on his rounds.  One distillery, maintained by Mr. Scott, was likely to do more good for crew morale than harm, but he was loath to publicly acknowledge that. He checked his schedule, remembering that Jim mentioned wanting to consult with Lieutenant Kaur about her proposal for restructuring the interstellar cartography department, and as the department was next on his list for review…

“Computer, locate Captain Kirk.”

“Captain Kirk is not aboard the Enterprise.”

Spock frowned, bringing up the ship’s log, immediately finding what he was looking for.

**Captain James. T. Kirk to join the Yegit VI landing party at 1100 hours.**

It was dated three minutes prior to away mission’s departure, acknowledged by an ops team member in the transporter room.  This, coming exactly four days after the last dangerous away mission where Jim assured his first officer that he would assign himself to any further away missions for the foreseeable future.  Spock turned to head straight to the transporter room to question the lieutenant about why Captain Kirk felt the need to go back on his promise to Spock. He called the turbo lift and stepped in, surprised to find the very man in question waiting for him.

“Captain.”

“Spock! What are you doing here?” The man looked just as bewildered as Spock felt, and grabbed both of his arms, panting as if out of breath, still damp and dressed in a grey and blue hydro suit.

“I would ask the same of you, Captain.  The ship log and computer system indicated you were on an away mission.”

“I was, but you…” Jim trailed off, a dawning expression of understanding.  “What year is it?”

“Twenty-two sixty-one point—”

“And that’s all I need to know,” Jim interrupted, putting his hands out to stop him. “Glad to see you made it out of the volcano after all.”

Spock looked Jim over one more time, remembering the last time he had seen Jim in a hydro suit. Nibiru.  “Ah.  Yes.”

“Ah. Yes.”  Jim echoed, now glaring, the relief evidently bled out of his system. “I gotta ask, in my future, do I ever get to punch you?”

“Negative.” Spock conveniently ignored the time they had been stranded among Ferengi latinum miners and had to stage a fistfight to create a diversion, but the blows Jim had landed hardly constituted something worth reporting, and was unsure how the knowledge would help this Jim from the past.

“Computer, pause lift.” The turbo lift halted, and Jim rounded on him.  “How could you possibly justify allowing yourself to die in a volcano?”

"That is beside the point.  We must address how you came to this part of your time stream.  What was your last-"

"I was thinking about punching you," Jim spat.  "I was thinking about how I could every continue to work along side the most stubborn, self-righteous martyr in the Alpha quadrant."

“In your future, this will be explained fully and to your satisfaction, and you will understand—”

“No, I won’t,” Jim growled. “I will not understand how you, of all people, would quote Surak at me, parroting the ‘needs of the many’ while using an poor interpretation of the Prime Directive to persuade me to _abandon you to die._ ”

“While I am grateful for you actions, I still believe that adhering to the Prime Directive results in the least amount of harm to indigenous cultures.”  Spock did not know why he was engaging in this conversation for the twelfth time with Jim.  The conversation ended the same way, with Spock confused and Jim grudgingly suggesting that they agree to disagree.

“If this,” Jim made an all encompassing gesture between them, “doesn’t convince you that there’s some wiggle in the master plan of the universe and Starfleet and everything, then nothing will.  I’m traveling through _time_ , Spock.  It doesn’t make any sense, I’m doing things I shouldn’t be able to do, but when the universe gives you a chance, you take it.  You don’t throw it away, and you don't let yourself be swallowed up by a fucking volcano because a few dozen prewarp natives might see a ship.  That's not following the Prime Directive, Spock, that's giving up.  And you _do not_ give up on _me_.”

“I hardly—”

And for the third time, Spock unexpectedly found himself lip to lip with James Tiberius Kirk. He still smelled of brine and damp and tasted of warm cinnamon and metallic sharpness that reminded him of the air on Vulcan. _Jim tasted of home_.

As soon as the fanciful thought crossed his mind, he pulled back at the same time Jim did, certain that he had been an active participant in this amorous exchange.

“Stop being so damn stubborn,” the man whispered against his lips, and dove in again, trying to push Spock against the turbo lift door, but Spock refused to give, gently pressing on Jim’s damp shoulder to separate the man from his being.  Jim looked up from under his eyelashes, pleased with whatever he saw.

“Well,” Jim said, licking his lips.  “I guess I have two years until I need to worry if you regret that.”

“I—”

“ _Commander Spock, this is Captain Kirk, come in please.”_

The other Jim quirked his lips in an amused grin.  “You don’t want to leave me hanging.”

Spock opened his communicator. “Yes, Captain.”

“ _Our meeting with Yegit delegation has concluded_.  _Meet me in my quarters._ ”

“Acknowledged.”

Spock put his communicator back on his belt, and looked up to find he was alone in the turbo lift once more. He audibly sighed.

“Computer, deck nine.”

He spent the remainder of his walk to Jim's quarters trying to decide if Jim had anything to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Gentle Readers, this chapter is especially for you who have stuck with this WIP. Sometimes life slows down a little, allowing some time to do what you love, like writing chapters about space men in love. :-) Thank you for reading!


	8. Part Eight

When Jim answered the door, his hair was still damp and the capillaries of his skin expanded, giving the Human a healthy pink flush and amplified the light scent of soap. He led Spock into the efficient living room that tripled as a dining area and office.  Spock took the offered seat on the settee, noting the chess set they had used days ago was still set mid-game, just as Spock had left it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, dragging a narrow armchair toward Spock.   “At the last minute we got caught in this acidic rain storm and I smelled like—well, never mind.”

“I would have waited in the ready room,” Spock offered, folding his hands in his lap.

Jim gave him a sideways glance.  “I thought perhaps you had something you wanted to discuss with me, something of an urgent matter.”

“The engineering department has successfully completed another round of inspections and have fully implemented the safety procedures you reviewed in last month’s staff meeting.”

Jim sunk down in the leather chair, his knees almost touching Spock’s, and gave him a bland look. “Good.  Anything else?”

“I have not reviewed interstellar cartography, but as you had wanted to discuss Lieutenant Kaur’s proposal, I thought it would be efficient for us to meet with her together.”

“Agreed. If you have time, we can arrange that at 1500.”

“There is one more matter,” Spock began, and watched with interest as Jim started to tense, as he often did when he was about to spring into motion.  “Despite your assurances to the contrary, you joined another away mission.”

Jim traced the edge of the side table with his thumb, which Spock observed often meant the Human was uncomfortable.  “Yes, I did. If you can’t understand why, then I’m not sure I can justify it to you.”

“There are times when a Captain must make a decision that is in the ship’s best interest and contrary to the First Officer’s suggestion.”

“That is true.”

“But that was not your reasoning when you joined the away mission.”

Jim pursed his lips together, giving Spock a shrewd look.  “No, it was not.”

Spock waited, and Jim matched his gaze evenly.   “You kissed me.”

As if Spock had said the key phrase, all of the tension drained out of Jim’s spine.

“Yes, I did. Two years ago, from my perspective."

Technically, there had been two other kisses that had occurred, but knowing these were all future kisses for Jim, it seemed inappropriate to quibble.  He wondered if they would ever kiss while in their correct timeline.  Subsequently he wondered if to think such a thing so casually indicated that Spock had come to some sort of revelation.

“What are you feelings on the matter at the present moment?”

Jim snorted lightly, shaking his head.  “I’ve been waiting two years to think about how I would feel at this moment.”  Jim smiled ironically.  “You know, in my memory, you had mentioned to my past self that my present self was onboard, meeting with Lieutenant Kaur.  In the temporal jump of my past, the Kirk of my future never went on that away mission.”

“You are suggesting that you were able to events of your past while in your future timeline, without creating a paradox.”  Spock mentally staggered at the implication.

“Yeah, essentially," Jim said blithely, as if he had not disproved 700 years of temporal mechanical theory.  "I think universe corrected my attempt to change it.  I have this... feeling, for lack of a better word, that I have some free will, but the universe’s sense of balance will always correct the broad strokes of the plan.” Spock pondered Jim’s hypothesis, as the Human moved leg back and forth, bumping Spock’s knee with his own. “Puts the Wells-Tuxx’ol principle on its head, doesn’t it?”

“One might say it destroys it,” Spock murmured, thinking of Jim’s exact phrasing from another visit with a first kiss.  First for him, that was, and depending on what point in the time stream one was in. Neither Standard nor Golic had a verb tense for “had happened, possibly would not happen, contingent on the future.”  Inventing the past conditional future perfect tense seemed needlessly complicated.

Verb tenses and quantum mechanics aside, there was a more pressing matter to address.

“Regardless, the kiss occurred.”

Jim’s smile strained, the muscles in his jaw overworking.  “Yeah, it did.”

“Why?”

Jim’s blue eyes softened. “Fate?”

Before being presented with the anomaly that the man was, Spock would have dismissed the idea. Now, he was unsure.  “Why me?” he clarified.

It was the variable he still did not understand.  Why was Jim drawn to him throughout the timeline, and why had Jim chosen him as a romantic partner. He had never show any particular preference for Spock, no hint as too any feeling that ran deeper than friendship.

“Because I’ve never seen a future beyond this point, but I always imagine it’s with you. I’ve thought about this for a long time, Spock.  I’d be happy to continue what we have, but I want to see there’s more.”

“You’ve never indicated a desire for a romantic relationship.”

Jim frowned. “Sure I did.  Who do I always ask to join me on shore leave?”

“Dr. McCoy.”

“Bones comes whether I ask or not, I don’t have choice,” Jim immediately shot back, folding his arms defensively. “But I always ask you. And what about Demiri Prime? Wasn’t that romantic, all those private picnics with just you and me?”

“The custom of eating on a blanket in a glade in pairs does fit with Terran societal norms as a romantic gesture, but I would be remiss as a scientist to apply such construct on the Demirian mandates regarding ingestion of consumables.”

“Fine, I was taking advantage of the local culture.  What about all those away missions gone awry and ending with forced marriages? I always pick you.”

“As First Officer, I am the best choice for any diplomatic—”

“What about the sex pollen?”

Spock bristled. “There is no such thing as sex pollen.”

“But when we became infect with the sex pollen—”

“The antigen of Zu V that suppressed the frontal lobe’s functions cannot be characterized as sex pollen.”

“Fine, when we became infected with the _antigen_ , who did I seek out?”

“Unknown, as you passed out in a Jeffries tube outside the medical bay.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I was breaking out to find you.” Spock fell silent. “Look, I’m not trying to pressure you into an answer now, but I need to know if I have a chance.”

A chance.

The likelihood of a successful life-long romantic relationship with James T. Kirk was difficult to calculate.  There were numerous variables, and as Spock had observed multiple times, Jim was the most confounding one.  However, despite (because of) all of that, Spock had already made his decision before he even entered the captain's quarters.

Spock bridged the distance between them with his knee, bumping them together as Jim often did, making the Human break out into a wide smile. “I would be interested in exploring the possibility.”

Spock didn’t follow Jim to the edges of the universe and guide him through the perils of the time stream for success or for science.  He did it for Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Gentle Reader, it's my particular favorite, lovey dovey stuff ahead :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading and the mental chocolate.


	9. Part Nine

-8-

“We can go slow,” Jim had said that evening.  Only much later would Spock contemplate the meaning Jim intended by the phrase.

If Jim had asked Spock, slow indicated that there was momentum to their relationship, a possible trajectory and destination that would eventually be achieved.

Slow, according to Jim, meant that the following week they played chess together twice, as was their habit, and ate every third meal together instead of every fourth meal. The week after, Jim added to this routine by suggesting that they watch a holovid in his quarters, where their thighs touched for two hours and Jim’s arm brushed up against Spock’s chest while reaching for the his empty teacup.  The week after that, Spock invited Jim to a private dinner in his quarters where Spock traced the back of Jim’s hand with his fingers, and Jim squeezed his shoulder.  Yesterday, almost two months after the start of this slow budding relationship, Jim had pressed his cheek against Spock’s shoulder while reading.  Spock had attempted to wrap his arm around the man to hold him in that position, but had to abort when Jim sat up and crossed the room to fill out reports.

“Good morning,” came Jim’s voice over Spock shoulder.  He turned to see his captain, curiously looking over at the control panel Spock had already started to work at, twelve minutes before the start of their alpha shift on the bridge.

“Captain,” Spock replied evenly.  They had mutually agreed to maintain the highest level of professionalism while on duty. “The telemetry readings on the asteroid belt are being analyzed and the preliminary finding are indicative of at least four other asteroids found in a neighboring sector.”

Spock took a step back to allow Jim access to the panel to review.  He gaze shifted from the screen, to Jim’s shoulders, down his back to the trim waist and…

...Concluded that based on current projections, they would achieve coitus in five point three years.

“Excellent,” Jim said, turning to walk over to the next station.  “Let me know when the results are finished, if the rest of the analysis holds true, we’ll set a course for that star.”

“Aye, Captain.” Spock watched beneath his lashes as Jim listened to Ensign Chekov rattle out the details from his post until a figure stepped into his line of vision.

“Desist at the earliest opportunity.”

Spock blinked at Nyota, who had switched from Federation Standard to High Golic. “To what are you referring?” he asked, concerned as to why she would feel the need to speak covertly his mother tongue.

“You,” she hissed, “and him. Cease gazing as a young mammalian trained house dweller would look upon its mate.”

Spock quirked his eyebrows. “Trained mammalian house dweller?” he repeated in the old tongue, the adjectives playing oddly on his tongue.

Nyota sighed. “Your amorous bird of _ashayam_ is distracting.”

Spock’s eyebrows now shot up to his hairline, barely parsing an understanding of the Terran metaphors applied within High Golic, but could infer the gist of her accusation. “Lieutenant, I believe your conjugation is incorrect.”

Nyota narrowed her eyes, then relaxed.  “Perhaps you could explain, later, Commander?”

No. No.  No.  “Yes, Lieutenant, perhaps at lunch.”

Nyota nodded, pleased, and turned back to her station.  Spock snuck one more glance at Jim, who caught his eye and smiled. It wasn’t like he had lunch plans in any case.  Jim wasn’t projected to join him for another two meals.

\---

“In what way do I resemble a Terran kitten?”

“Puppy, actually,” Nyota corrected, swallowing her bite of pizza.  “Puppy eyes.  Love birds. I didn’t think it translated well, but you know how much I like creative semantic applications.  Vulcans have no appreciation for metaphor."

“Agreed, but as I recall, creative linguistics is what earned you third in applications.”

Her look immediately became flinty, but the slant of her lips indicated she didn’t take offense to the comment.  “But first in aural sensitivity, don’t forget that.”  Nyota took another bite of pizza, cheese oozing out the sides of the slice.

“I cannot forget,” Spock replied, eating his ekėwl neatly, careful not to drip any of the sauce. “I am not sure that I should be troubling you with this social dilemma.”

Nyota gestured around the nearly deserted mess hall.  “Is there anyone else you can go to?  That isn’t Kirk?”

Spock nodded in acknowledgement.  “However, as a moral matter, I should not relay my issues to another officer aboard the ship who is not licensed to deal with such matters.”  Nyota’s eyes rounded.  “It is not… medical,” Spock quickly explained, feeling distinctly uncomfortable that Nyota could possibly infer _that_ particular personal condition.

“I already know. You like Kirk, and Kirk doesn’t quite reciprocate.”  Nyota waited expectantly, Spock careful not to move a muscle.  “No, then.  Kirk likes you, and you don’t reciprocate.”  Long pause. “You and Kirk like each other, but you’ve not really talked about it.”  Nyota’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline.  “I’m close, aren’t I?”

“Nyota—”

“Are you having…” Nyota leaned forward.  “Issues?”

“No,” he immediately denied, but she only narrowed her eyes in response.  “Not as such,” he amended.  “I still do not wish to discuss this.”

“Fine, we won’t discuss. You do all the talking, and I will listen.”

Spock was strongly reminded why he and Nyota had rarely fought.  “I appreciate the offer, but you are not obligated to do this.”

“I’m the communication officer.  It’s my job.”

“It is not within your purview—”

“Spock, consider this an opportunity to share your observations of Human communication with someone who is an expert in the area.”  Spock nodded for her to continue.  “Take the ensign over there.  He broke up with the cadet in engineering after six weeks, obviously a relationship based on lust alone.”

“Obvious, why?”

“Six weeks is the exact lifespan of the lustful Human attention span in a monogamous relationship.”

He was unable to _not_ calculate that Jim had exactly 13 days and 9 hours left, if that was indeed their case.

“And Carol Marcus? She broke it off with Monty exactly five weeks after moving into his quarters. Humans need at least sixty days of cohabitation to become accustomed to shared quarters.”

“I see,” Spock replied, not certain that these statistics had not been published, or he would have unearthed them in his recent searches in Human courtship behavior.  "Your examples are all evidence of Human-only relationships."

"Does it matter?"

"How could it not be a significant factor?"

"I didn't think so."  Nyota bit her lip, thinking.  "Fair enough, our past relationship is a poor example."

It was a testament to their ongoing friendship over the years the comment held no sting.  But it was an accurate point, Nyota was not Jim, and the situation could not be more different.  They sat in silence, resuming their lunch one more.

“Does this disgust you?” she asked suddenly.  Spock gave her a silent questioning look, and she specified.  “The pizza, I mean.  Is it unpleasant to watch me eat meat, or eat with my hands?”

Spock blinked, surprised. “No.  Although I would not eat it, I derive no displeasure from others partaking.”  Spock recalled the months of their intimate relationship.  “I was not away you were fond of meat, or this dish in particular.”

“Oh, I am,” she said, her voice almost a sigh as she gazed at the greasy slice.  “I think I was concerned about offending you. I should have just asked,” Nyota shrugged. “But sometimes you are afraid of what the answer might be, and maybe it would be better to just pretend and not risk offending you than to just go out and get what you want.”

“Is this another metaphor?”

“I knew you secretly appreciated them,” she replied, a sly smile gracing her lips. Spock simply nodded in grateful acknowledgement and started to gather his silverware onto his tray. “You’re leaving already?”

“My lunch is finished, and I have work to do,” he said, picking up his half-eaten ekėwl. “Thank you for your company and your insight, Nyota.”

"Please, don't mention it."

"I will not," he replied solemnly, and left to plan his own path.

\---

Spock had the evening planned, from favored food and beverage to ambiance.  He developed a playlist of music both he and Jim mentioned sharing a taste for, and had taken extra care with his grooming.

In a fit of hopeful optimism, he replicated a synthetic down pillow for his bed, as he was taken to understand that Humans preferred them to the traditional Vulcan bedding.

As he paced his quarters five minutes after Jim was due to arrive, he could not help but glance at it from time to time.

The pillow, too, seemed to be a metaphor.

When Jim finally arrived, the candles were a quarter gone and the wine was fully aerated. Spock could not feel annoyed when he finally saw Jim standing at his door, looking clearly anxious.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the man immediately apologized.  “There was this thing, and I just had a wardrobe malfunction and—”

“There is no need to apologize,” Spock insisted, taking in Jim’s clothes, in particular the turtleneck, quite inappropriate for Spock’s warmer quarters.  “You are here now.”

Spock walked to the table and drew out a chair.  Jim smiled and sat down, taking in the transformed quarters.  “Are these real candles?”

Spock allowed himself a small, pleased expression.  “Yes, I obtained them from an outpost on Deep Space Two many years ago. The scent is purported to be universally pleasing.”  Spock took a moment to savor the aroma, mixed with Jim, and another scent, unfamiliar and tangy. He could not place it, but immediately dismissed it.  “Wine?”

“Yes, please.” Jim immediately took a large gulp from the glass Spock filled and gestured for another refill. “It’s been a long day. I’m glad you asked me here.”

“I enjoy ending the day in your company, as well,” Spock replied.  “I believe that having your _physical_ presence is most enjoyable.”

Jim blinked and then swallowed.  “Ah. Me too.”

Subtlety, Spock was reminded, was not necessarily Jim’s strongest suit.  “I thought perhaps we could spend some time discussing what we might enjoy sharing, physical.”  Spock paused, studying his companion's expression which moved from anxious to outright afraid.  "Only if you would find it agreeable," he amended, somewhat surprised by the Human's reticence.

“Oh, well that,” Jim stammered, looking flushed.  “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it.  Or you. Or you and it. Theoretically of course!”

“Of course,” Spock nodded, puzzled.

“Well, it’s just that, I think we just need to, that is…” Spock could see visible sweat break out across Jim’s forehead, and the normally composed captain was beginning to fall apart.

“Jim, are you well?”

“Oh! I’m a little… maybe I should drop by sickbay and see if Bones can’t—” Jim started to fidget with the collar of his shirt, as if it was tightening around his neck.  For the briefest of moments in the dim light, Spock caught something just below Jim’s ear.

“What is that?”

“Huh?”

But before Jim could object, Spock reached over and drew Jim’s turtleneck down to reveal a distinctive pattern of bruises along his neck.  Jim sat absolutely still as Spock drew his finger down further and further to expose more to the collar bone, across the left shoulder, until the fabric gave no more and he was left to imagine where the mouth-shaped marks ended.

“Spock, it’s not what it looks like.”

“You allowed someone to mark you,” Spock ground out.

“Well then, yes, it’s exactly what it looks like," Jim conceded, fixing the shirt to cover the marks once more.  "But you need to let me explain.”

"Please do.  Quickly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *emerges from a pile of tinsel, cupcake wrappers, and wine bottles, well rested and ready to go*
> 
> Hello gentle, gracious, patient readers! I'm back. Thank you for reading this little bit, and I hope to get another out to you this week.
> 
> You deserve something meaty, steamy, and Spirky, I think.


	10. Part Ten

“We can go slow,” Jim had insisted at the beginning of their romantic relationship.  It killed him a little to say it, but he had waited _two years_ for Spock to notice his interest; he could wait a while longer.

Spock was smart, steady, and calculated.  He wouldn’t take risks with their newly minted relationship or push to hard or forget anniversaries or any of the things that Jim had done to ruin all his previous relationships. All of the things Jim admired in his First Officer he loved about Spock.

Or imagined he loved.

Or something.

Jim once wondered if this was just unfulfilled pinning or if he was head over heels crazy about the man. He had expected that now that he had Spock’s full attention, maybe some of the _something_ that had coiled around his heart these past two years would loosen and he would gain some much needed perspective on the whole issue, but if anything, it made it worse.  Spock was polite, almost courtly, and Jim was reduced to a bumbling first semester cadet on his first away mission to Planet I Like Spock.

Not that he was pining in his quarters, awaiting Spock to sweep him into a passionate embrace like some terrible holonovel.  He was a Starfleet captain, he didn’t wait for opportunity to find him. Jim had applied himself in research, hoping that he could decipher some Vulcan code of chivalrous conduct, but had come up short.  Prereformation love poetry left a great deal to be desired and while Jim could hack into the Vulcan mainframe of medical data, he wasn’t even remotely fluent enough in the peculiar dialect of Golic to begin to decipher the heavily redacted sexual health texts available.

All of this he pushed out of his mind as he entered the bridge on Alpha shift, ready to start the morning as captain of the best ship and crew in the fleet.  He was professional, poised, decisive, an exemplary officer. Hakihr meditation was serving more purposes than just keeping him rooted into this timeline. _The mind controls the body.  Control the mind, and the body will follow._   He was in control of his mind.  His body would not leave this time stream.

His extraocular muscles would not divert his eyeballs to gaze at his First Officer’s ass.  His mind would not dwell on said ass.

Instead, he gave the man a pleasant “good morning,” and kept his attention to the innocuous control panel.  He was well aware they garnered an extra amount of attention these days.  Their relationship was recorded with Starfleet, but not publicized. Which meant, of course, everyone knew.

He wondered if it bothered Spock at all.  Probably not.  Nothing bothered Spock.

He loved that about Spock.

Or something.

“Captain,” the object of his thoughts replied in the exact same octave and cadence he said anything. “The telemetry readings on the asteroid belt are being analyzed and the preliminary finding are indicative of at least four other asteroids found in a neighboring sector.”

Jim leaned into the man’s space, but focused on the screen, following what Spock was describing and couldn’t help—really couldn’t help—noticing that he had a slightly different scent today, sandalwood and something else that reminded him an herbal tea he knew Uhura drank. He inhaled the scent once more and then stood upright, and moved to the next station on his round. He looked back for a moment, almost certain that Spock had been watching him, only to find, no, his attention was wholly on his work.

If only there was someone nearby fluent in Spock, who understood what he might be trying to communicate in a romantic context, someone who understood the man better than even Jim.

He glanced over to where his communications officer was sitting and caught her staring daggers at Spock’s station and then turned the same look upon him.

Jim internally frowned. _No, not crossing that line_.

Chekov apparently found some very interesting gravimetric readings from Gamma shift and started rattling off something about telemetry and how astrometrics lab should be advised to compensate accordingly when the low tones of Spock and Uhura conversing caught his attention.

Jim nodded encouragingly, only half listening as his tilted his head to see Spock and Uhura in a quiet conversation. Uhura looked annoyed while Spock merely looked politely disinterested.  If Jim strained, he could barely make out the words “yes” and “midday meal” from Spock.  They parted, and Jim had nothing else to watch.

A quick scheduled tour of operations, two recommendations for promotion written, and a stop to remind Scotty to move the still out of the botanic bay, and then was well after 1300 when Jim entered the bridge.  He headed straight for his captains chair and felt vaguely hungry.

“Mister Spock, care to join me for--” he started, and then stopped, realizing the Vulcan wasn’t at his science station.

“The Commander took his lunch ten minutes ago with Lieutenant Uhura, sir,” Sulu informed him.  “Do you want me to locate him?”

He shook his head, trying to ignore the interested gaze of half the bridge and his own disappointment that Spock had left for lunch without him.  Not that they had plans, but they hadn’t shared a meal in over a day, and it seemed like something the other enjoyed.  Or maybe he didn’t, and Jim was reading it wrong.

He glanced around the room, daring any of the crew to ask a follow up question.  All of the eyeballs trained on him slinked away and Jim was left alone with his thoughts.

Screw that.  “Mister Sulu, you have the bridge,” he ordered, and before Sulu could reply with an acknowledgement, Jim was in the turbolift heading for deck nine and straight through the pneumatic doors and almost bumped into the person he wanted to see most right at that moment.

“Bones!”

The doctor glared at him. “I don’t suppose you were coming to find me for your overdue physical.”

“I’m sure I can fit it in today…” McCoy raised a disbelieving eyebrow, “… right after lunch.  Care to join me?”

Jim herded the doctor from the med bay all the way to the mess, immediately spotting Spock and Uhura in the center of the room.  He herded McCoy to a table in the corner and slipped into the farthest seat, which gave him the best vantage point of the room.

“Are you eating anything?” Bones asked dryly.

“Just get me whatever you’re having.” Jim spent the next two minutes leaning heavily on his left arm, letting a potted ficus obscure his presence. McCoy returned with two chef salads.

“Any chance this could sway the results of my physical?” Jim asked, stabbing the cherry tomatoes.

“No.  Any chance we’re here to spy on Spock?”  Bones shot back.

Jim frowned.  “No.”

“Sure seams like you’ve scouted out the perfect spot for a reconnaissance mission.”

“I don’t need to check up on Spock—”

“—and his ex—”

“—because Spock would just tell me if he had something he wanted to share with me.  And she’s not the ex, she’s the communications officer first. I’m _grateful_ that she choose to be on the Enterprise, I can’t be jealous of her.”

“Wrong,” Bones said cheerfully. “Spock would tell you exactly what was _logical_ to inform you, and no more, unless there was a great ethical purpose to do so.”

Jim’s frown deepened. “You think he’s hiding something from me?”

“No, but you do.”

Jim slouched, looking at Uhura and Spock over McCoy’s shoulders.  “No.”

“Suit yourself.  But this is exactly how it all started with Jocelyn.”

“Spock isn’t your ex wife.”

“Thank god for that,” Bones agreed. “But you could learn from my mistakes. Don’t let the intimacy go, Jim, or they’ll always look for somewhere else to get it,” he said sagely.

Jim sat in silence, watching Bones chew contentedly in ignorance.  In the corner of his eye he saw Spock leaving Uhura at the lunch table.  Uhura looked like she was trying to get Spock to stay, but he was shaking his head and heading out the doorway.

“Any other cheery words of relationship advice?”

“Don’t leave your underwear on the floor.” Jim snorted.  “And talk to him, Jim.  If something’s eating at you, just talk to him.  It’s just Spock.”

He sighed.  _Just Spock._ If only Bones knew how deep and how far back their relationship ran.  If Jim ruined this with Spock, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to continue.  He wasn't sure there could be a future without Spock.

Several hours and an annual physical later, Jim sat in his captain’s seat.  Spock hadn’t returned to his science station, but that wasn’t unusual. He was debating a surprise safety drill (wouldn't Spock love that?) when his PADD lit up with a private message.

**_Are you available for dinner in my quarters this evening?_ **

Jim stared at the screen, rereading the ten words over and over again.  That was unusual.  _Be cool.  Be confident.  It’s probably nothing concerning._

**Yes.**

There. That didn’t sound needy or desperate, did it?

**_Is 1900 acceptable?_ **

Jim waited a few moments.

**Yes.**

**_Then I will look forward to your presence in three hours._ **

A nervous energy suddenly coursed up and down Jim’s limbs, the kind he got when he was headed for a big mission.  As soon as his shift ended, as went to his quarters and peeled off his uniform, grabbed a Andorian silk tunic from the back of his closet and set it on his bed.  It was attractive, but light enough to wear in Spock’s warmer quarters. A logical choice he was sure Spock would approve of.

He stepped into the shower, this time opting for a real water shower instead of a sonic one. It gave him some time to think, which was possibly the worst thing he could have done.

The nervous energy hadn’t bled from his system, instead it was only getting worse. He breathed, trying Hakihr meditation again while mindlessly soaping up.  _My mind controls my body what if he doesn’t want a romantic relationship I am in control of my mind, and my body will maybe Vulcans can’t reciprocate that kind of physical affection and I’m demanding too much and if I can control my mind, the body will be under my control and can I expect him to still want to be with me if I don’t tell him what I want, what if I really told him—_

And then, at the worst possible moment, it happened again.

He tried to explain to Spock once what it was like. First, there was that unsettling feeling when the airlock was opened and the gravity plates are disengaged, and then the feeling of pulled by the bellybutton through an airless tunnel just big enough to pass through.  Then it was very similar sensations of being beamed on and off the ship, with the disorienting instant of being subjected new environmental stimuli, new temperature and humidity, new gravity, and so on.

So it came to be that Jim was naked, dripping wet and soapy, inside a tent staring at a very furious looking Spock.

“I… uh, sorry,” Jim started, moving his hands to his front and giving some semblance of what he assumed Spock considered appropriate modesty.  His eyes darted around the room, trying to glean evidence of where or when he was.  The tent was tall enough to stand up in, made of arched poles with rough cloth secured over it. There was no indication to its origin, but reminded Jim of wigwams from Earth’s history, if wigwams were in such hot arid climates.   “So, when are we this—”

Jim was interrupted by a very low, feral noise that was emanating from the corner were Spock stood. He was dressed in a white robe secured by a ceremonial belt that Jim had seen once before in Spock’s quarters. The Vulcan bared his teeth and was stalking towards naked, wet Jim.  Startled, he took several steps back until he hit the far side of the tent.

“Spock?”

“Achoo loot fun trilobite,” Jim heard.  His Universal Translator could not parse the syllables into anything resembling Standard, but he thought it might be a dialect of Golic, or some other language spoken on Vulcan. He was shocked to see such an openly emotional expression on his face, unsure if he was angry at Jim, or Jim had interrupted something.

“Spock, I don’t understand,” he said, now nose to nose with Spock.  “Where are we?”

“Quasi bike hard mint woosh,” Spock growled, reaching out with firm hands, squeezing Jim’s shoulders and running them down his damp arms.  “Loot tire.”

Jim tried to shrug out of the grasp, giving up on any semblance of modesty, and pushed on the other’s chest.  “Spock, stop—”

That seemed to bring the other man up short.  Like being doused with cold water, he dropped his hands and leaned back, looking stricken.

“Trilobite pit sane tame the high low. Pat ink the high low.”  Spock gently placed Jim’s hand on his side, where his heart was.

“The high-low?”

“The high low,” Spock murmured in agreement, exhaling slowly and leaning forward and inhaled deeply. Jim could feel, rather than hear, him rumble deep in his chest like a purr.  _He’s scenting me_.

“Spock, I think—”

“Under down quail,” Spock growled into his ear.  _Shut up_ , or its Vulcan equivalent, he was sure this time.

Then Spock’s teeth latched onto his neck.

Not the pleasant love-nips one would give a romantic partner, but how a panther might take down Jim as his prey.  He yelled in surprise and tried to push Spock away, but he could just as easily shoved the panther latched onto his jugular.  Spock’s tongue, surprisingly cool, laved his neck from shoulder to jawbone, as his arms held Jim tightly to his chest, soothing the wound.

“Ow,” Jim protested, and then more bites, slightly softer, were administered just above his clavicle. He tried to shimmy out of the other’s grasp, but that was probably the least effective way of communicating to Spock his intentions were.

Or the most effective way.

It would depend on what his intentions were.  Ninety kilos of gibberish-speaking horny Spock seemed to think he already knew what Jim wanted.  Jim was finally catching on to what Spock wanted.  He was being laid like a virgin sacrifice onto a soft rug on a table, and Spock was tugging off the ceremonial belt with haste.  Chants of _waitwaitwaitwait_ and _yesyesyesyes_ rang simultaneously in his head.

“The high low rib bit cream twill,” Spock said solemnly, stoking the side of Jim’s face, almost prayer like, and started to shrug out of his robe.  Finally, although the words seemed heavy and sluggish on his tongue, Spock whispered in Standard, “always with you, Jim.”

Jim, still completely disoriented from Vulcan mood swings and the pure adoration Spock was bestowing on him, barely had time to recognize what was about to be initiated.

 _Not this way,_ Jim thought.  _I want to share this with_ my _Spock_.

Jim opened his eyes to a face full of cold water, having slipped through the time stream and back into his shower once more.

\---

The return was something that Jim and Spock had never figured out.  Sometimes he would end up in the precise moment he had left.  Sometimes it was several minutes off.  Sometimes the location was off, which was fortunate.  He was on a space ship.  If he returned to the exact spot, it would have been several thousand kilometers behind the Enterprise floating naked in space right now.

Jim once proposed that the time stream was sentient, and knew where and when Jim needed to return. Spock suggested that Jim was able to control his return subconsciously.  Neither could settle on any one hypothesis, but it was something they enjoyed to postulate during late evenings together.

Much like the late evening Spock had planned tonight, but instead of the fifteen minutes Jim had prepared for, the computer cheerfully reminded him that was due in Spock’s quarters a half hour ago.

Jim jumped out of the shower and grimaced when he saw his neck.  Bright red welts, more befitting being attacked with a tire iron to the neck, were appearing along one side of his neck.  He would be striped like a rainbow if he didn’t take care of it now. He reached for the dermal regenerator Bones insisted he have in his quarters, but apparently now, of all times, it was missing.

Jim ran to the replicator and started to step into his pants.

“One dermal regenerator,” he ordered, and watched in confusion when thermal discriminator appeared. “Dermal regenerator,” he repeated, only to be gifted with a mammal exterminator.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jim muttered, glancing at the chronometer.  Spock hated tardiness.  He would probably also hate the love bites along Jim’s neck. Jim looked around the room, trying to gain some inspiration, when he saw it, the sleeve just barely visible from the back of the closet.

The ugly sweater.

The one article of clothing Jim could not quite bare to recycle, but never wore. It was a turtleneck that his mother got him one birthday that never saw the light of day.  It was turquoise and purple, it was striped, it was wool, but it was the only thing in Jim owned that would cover his neck.

Which was why Jim was now jogging to Spock’s quarters, refusing to make eye contact with anyone who passed him, looking like a circus tent.  Spock made no indication that he was annoyed by his tardiness, and Jim’s heart melted a little when he saw the table set with real burning candles and wine.

Thankfully, Spock immediately offered him some wine, which Jim could barely taste as his gulped it down. “It’s been a long day,” he admitted. “I’m glad you asked me here.”

Spock made a small, pleased expression.  “I enjoy ending the day in your company, as well.  I believe that having your _physical_ presence is most enjoyable,” added archly.

Spock’s voice saying the word _physical_ , of course, triggered a deluge of recent memories Jim was trying not to dwell on. He carefully swallowed his third gulp of wine.  “Ah. Me too.”

“I thought perhaps we could spend some time discussing what we might enjoy sharing, physically.” Spock waited, expectantly, but Jim’s words seemed to be lodged somewhere south of his vocal cords. “Only, if you would find it agreeable.”

“Oh, well that,” Jim stuttered.  He was roasting inside the sweater, which was getting itchy at the collar, and the glass of wine he had just inhaled wasn’t helping.  “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it.  Or you. Or you and it.” _Ooops._ “Theoretically of course!”

Spock really didn’t need to know what Future Spock had initiated.  That is, he hoped it was Future Spock, because if there had been a Past Spock was up for jungle animal sex, he wanted to know why _his_ Spock was holding out.  Jim cursed the malfunctioning replicator again, realizing that _now_ of all moments Spock could be interested in taking _theoretical_ into _practical._

Spock tilted his head quizzically.  “Of course.”

“Well, it’s just that, I think we just need to, that is…” Jim was certain he was basting in his own sweat at this point, his heart was racing like he was running a marathon.

Spock’s eyebrows knitted in concern, reaching a hand towards him.  “Jim, are you well?”

Jim refused to panic, but knew when to make a hasty retreat.  “Oh! I’m a little… maybe I should drop by sickbay and see if Bone’s can’t—”

“What is that?”

Jim dropped his hand. _Dammit_. He stilled, letting Spock pull the collar of the turtleneck down, and watched as Spock’s face went from concerned to disbelief to something Jim had never seen before.

“Spock, it’s not what it looks like.”

“You allowed someone to mark you.”

Jim’s heart sank at Spock’s betrayed tone.  “Well, then, yes, it’s exactly what it looks like.”  He wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t know if telling the whole truth would be the best decision.  But allowing Spock to think anything else would surely destroy a future that Jim spent so long to protect. “You need to let me explain.”

Spock fixed him a look that Jim had seen only once before, from another Spock in a wigwam in the desert.

He was angry.

“Please do. Quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, gentle readers, for your readership and comments, if you have any.
> 
> I would give translation to the horny Vulcan gibberish, but that would be telling, wouldn't it. ;-)


	11. Part Eleven

“Spock, it’s not what it looks like.”

“You allowed someone to mark you,” Spock ground out.  He barely recognized his own voice.

“Well then, yes, it’s exactly what it looks like.”  Spock’s hands balled into fists as Jim tugged the collar of his shirt up to hide the offending bruise.  “You need to let me explain.”

“Please do. Quickly.”

Spock watched intently as Jim’s demeanor changed.  The frequent swallowing and nervous fingers stilled was replaced with a posture and bearing that Spock had seen many times on the bridge or in an away mission. Jim’s arms moved to the table, his hands approximately ten centimeters from Spock’s own fists, his eyes, although dilated (in lust?  fear?) were fixed steadily on Spock’s face, but not directly at his eyes with minimal blinking. Spock almost growled in recognition.

He was being treated to a Starfleet regulation display of Diplomacy Stance Number Seven _._

“I am not delegate of unknown species, Jim.  I will not be _handled._ ”

Jim’s gaze shifted to meet his directly, not startled but wary.  “I’m not sure what to tell you.”

“The truth.”

“ _The Good tell the truth, whatever the consequence. The Wise know when to use it._ ” Jim paused.  “This is where you would be impressed by my knowledge of fifth century Vulcan philosophy.”

“You are quoting the forward to your Command and Diplomacy textbook.  And stalling is one of the least effective tactics outlined in the course.” Jim grimaced, acknowledging his attempt at levity was not appreciated.  “Explain,” Spock demanded again.

“First, I need to say that I am concerned that telling you would create a paradox.”

Spock’s fists slammed on the table, and he pushed away, not wanting to see Jim’s reaction to his momentary outburst.

Jim continued as if he had not witnessed anything out of the usual. “Second, I’m afraid the truth would upset you even more.”

“I cannot imagine what could be more damning that what I have observed.”

Jim pushed back from the table and stopped an arms length away from Spock.  “Can you imagine that I was in a position where I was disoriented and not entirely aware of what was happening?”  Spock’s veins ran cold.  Jim quickly added, “not that I was unwilling, but it’s not like I had an orientation to the situation.”

“Who did this to you?” he hissed. He was warring between an instinct to rip the unknown perpetrator to pieces and drag Jim to the ground to rub off the offending scent that seemed soaked into the skin above his carotid artery. Spock narrowed his eyes and waited.

Jim snorted, completely oblivious to Spock’s emotional turmoil.  “Who do you think?”

“I would not presume to know--”

“If you don’t trust me, then say so, but don’t give me that ‘I don’t know’ shit,” Jim ground out, surprising Spock with an equal measure of controlled irritation.

Jim’s words punctured a hole in the wall of anger, but he continued to grapple silently with warring instincts.

“I would never cheat on you. This is ridiculous, do I need to spell it out for you?”

“I believe you would never betray me, but there are certain cultural connotations that, without context, lends itself to a rather negative interpretation.” Spock could not help but glance at the red bruise peaking out of the neck of his shirt.

Jim frowned. “The hickey?  I swear, as soon as I get a dermal regenerator, I’ll fix it.”

Spock shook his head, although erasing the mark would go some distance in calming his nerves. “It was a violence, albeit small, against your person.  I could never…”

“Never?”

Images, imaginings, flashed before his eyes. “Unlikely, then.”

“Is it an intriguing idea?” Jim teased, his eyes dancing.

Spock’s face darkened in thought.  He lifted a hand, this time to the unmarred side of Jim’s neck  “Even this,” he said, dragging a finger across the skin under his jaw “is intimate between Vulcans.  Our fingers have a hundred million nerve endings that communicate ten to the twelfth signals to the brain in a second, five hundred times more complex than Human hands.” Jim stilled under Spock gaze, and allowed his head to be tilted back, allowing Spock to stretch the neck of his shirt and run two fingers down to his clavicle and back again. “This area would be particularly appealing, as would your spine.”  Fingers traveled up again, against a smooth jaw.  “Human lips are so densely packed with nerve endings,” he noted, surprised when Jim’s tongue darted out and swiped along the pad of his index finger. Spock jerked his hand back.

“As are tongues,” Jim added, a smile growing on his face.

Yes, to have teeth latched perfectly at the junction between neck and clavicle, tongue and lips so close to Jim’s cervical nerves, the idea was heady.  Spock licked his lips, clearing away the phantom images.

“I suspected, but didn’t know, there were so many things that didn’t make sense. Does ‘the high-low’ mean anything to you?” Spock frowned and shook his head.

Slowly, Jim raised his hand, placed it at Spock’s side, just below his heart. “What does this mean?”

His breath caught in his throat, and just as Jim’s fingers were about with withdraw, he caught them and pressed them a few inches higher, fingertips splayed between rib bones and his heart hammering beneath. “T’hy’la.”

“Yes, that’s the word.”

The gravity of what Jim had unwittingly revealed rocked him to his core, he credited the magnitude of his disorientation as to why he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the soft pink ones.  This time he was able to relish the gentle sensory feedback loop they created, sending signals of _warmth_ and _strength_ and _want_ back and forth between them.

When Jim softly pulled away, he chuckled.

“What is amusing?” Spock asked, purely puzzled.

“Our first kiss. Finally.  Second, technically.”

 _Fourth_ , _in linear chronology,_ Spock thought, knowing that now was not the time to correct Jim. Possibly, one day. _The Wise know when to use the truth._ Spock would hopefully have a lifetime to discover and demonstrate the truth of being T’hy’la.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are still here (or just joining) thank you. A special thanks to the readers that have left such kind and thoughtful comments, this little chapter (and the impending ending) is for you, you have my gratitude for motivating me.
> 
> For those keeping the Kiss Count, the other three smooches occurred:  
> 1\. in Spock's office, during Future!Jim's first explanation  
> 2\. in Spock's hotel room, when Future!Jim walked in  
> 3\. in the turbo lift, when Past!Jim thought Spock was going to get blown up by the volcano


	12. Part Twelve

 

 

> Nam-tor wak vah yut s'vesht na'fa'wak heh pla'rak.
> 
> **Time is a path from the past to the future and back again.**
> 
> \- Surak

 

Spock tied the last of the vines and stood up to observe his work.  His mother had been, what she called, a “green thumb,” and enjoyed horticulture.  Although it was never an interest in his youth, he now found satisfaction in the results. There was something pleasing about the slow and steady growth in a fickle environment and the ripening of long awaited fruit.

“Tomatoes?”

Spock lifted his head from the dirt but paused before turning around. “I was told they would do well in this particular soil composition.”

“Well that’s fine, but unless you want tomatoes coming out of your ears, you have twice as many plants as you need for one season.”

Spock closed his eyes and hid a small smile.  He climbed up from the ground and turned to face the visitor.

“Hello, Jim.”

Jim beamed, exactly as Spock remembered from their Starfleet days.  “Hello, Spock.  Greetings from 2262.”

“I would appreciate a moment in the shade.  Would you care to sit?” Jim followed him to the bench on the corner of the garden facing a stone house.  “What brought you here?” Spock asked, gesturing to their surroundings.

Jim eyed him uncertainly, taking in the streaks of grey at Spock’s temples, the lines at his hands. “I was thinking…”

“That is usually how these things start.  It is improbable that you intersect time streams as often as you do if intense thought is the consistent antecedent.”

Jim looked at him in disbelief.  “You’re teasing me.”

“Vulcans never tease.” Jim squinted at him. “But perhaps I have learned some new skills over the intervening years.  What brings you here this time?”

Jim dropped his head. “You proposed today.”

Spock fell silent, knowing he could not respond.

“And, as you know, I didn’t give you an answer.  And I don’t know if I ever told you, but I feel very bad about running out like that.”

Spock looked at him silently, trying to remember that night through Jim’s eyes. He could picture the man’s face as he looked at the glass medallion he had fashioned with a few grains of sand from Vulcan. He had designed it, in a moment of Human sentimentality, to resemble both an hourglass and the Vulcan symbol for “eternal.”  Jim had bolted from the room, a whispered “I can’t” before Spock was able to explain the meaning of the design.

“I am afraid.”

“I know. And I knew then, too, Jim. I did not blame you.”

“Did you chose me because you thought it had already been designed for us, that you had no choice.  I can’t help but think that you deserve something… more.”

 _More_.

More than just a favored quiet hotel room that lacked a replicator but had a single bed that Jim would always sleep in.  More than the small victories and painful losses on a starship bridge, or the small moments in time where everything was peaceful.  More than what Spock was able to have with Jim, whatever time he had him.

There was the matter of a troublesomely thin file in the corner of Spock’s office with articles and notes and a list that read:

  *       Red matter exposure at birth
  *       Alternate reality mind meld with counterpart
  *       Q
  *       Guardian of Forever
  *       Decalithium overdose



Perhaps they were never meant to solve the puzzle of Jim’s temporal jumps or the nature of free will and destiny.  Perhaps there was a _more_ that Jim wanted for Spock, but Spock had already judged it to be _less_.

“I’ve never regretted any of my decisions regarding you, James Kirk. ”

Jim nodded thoughtfully.  “And I've never regretted a moment with you.  I knew my answer, before you even asked, but then I just..." Jim sighed.  "I've made a mess.  Any advice?”

Spock considered. “There is a purple shirt you own. Please dispose of it.”

Jim wrinkled his nose. “That’s not what I meant. And I only wore that shirt once at New Years to annoy Carol Marcus.”

“I remember. However, I have not grown any fondness for it.” Spock was rewarded with a grin.  “And Jim?”

“Yes?”

“While everything has its own time, please do not keep me waiting.”

The wind sighed in reply and Spock brushed his hand over the bench, marveling at the residual heat and disturbed dirt that were the only indicators of Jim Kirk’s brief and impossible visit.   A faint and distance clang of silverware on dishes made its way from the house down to the garden, prompting Spock to stand up and turn in for lunch.

He did not want to keep Jim waiting.

* * *

 

 

> Can one describe Earth without Sol?  How would one describe an electron without its nucleus, an ocean without its shore? I find I can no longer describe myself without Jim.  If I know him, in any time or space, then I should be able to know myself.
> 
> \- S’chn T’gai Spock, _Notes on a Pervasive Temporal Anomaly_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, dear readers, for your readership, comments, kudos, and general awesomeness. If you enjoyed this story, I would encourage you to check out my others, which are much more linear in nature :-)
> 
> If you share my love of timelines and charts (or just still confused after this romp through time) check out the visual aids here: http://walktalkwrite.tumblr.com/post/117652522261/as-requested-the-charts-for-whenever-you-are


End file.
